


The Former Captains of Chorus

by GayFrankensteinsMonster



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Autistic Character, Character Death, Disabled Character, Eventual Communication, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Intersex Character, M/M, Mentally Ill Characters, Multi, Multiple System Character, Nonbinary Character, Other, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Polyamory, Post-RVB13, Slow Burn, Trans Male Character, Unlikely Siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-05-10 16:32:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 66,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5593213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GayFrankensteinsMonster/pseuds/GayFrankensteinsMonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The exploits of the former Red and Blue soldiers of Project Freelancer, and their issues with continuing their existence. Trying to move on, trying to resolve conflict, trying to figure out how to feel and deal with life and love and other such things-<br/>They're all horrible messes of human beings. But they're trying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Recant

Leonard L. Church is a protected UNSC asset.

Leonard L. Church is not Leonard L. Church. Leonard L. Church has been dead for upwards of a  _ long-ass time _ , but this person, this conglomerate of a reassembled AI stuffed into a bio-synthetic clone of that dead man and carefully monitored-

This person is also Leonard L. Church. He prefers Epsilon, when he is, in fact, Epsilon. Sometimes he’s another letter of the Greek alphabet, but most of the time he’s Epsilon. And Epsilon is doing well enough to be released to the general public under the careful and all-seeing eye of the UNSC. He’s told this. He agrees to this and accepts the terms- those terms being that he would be sent to live with a pair of his former team members (to ensure his safety, you’re always safer in numbers, can’t have a damaged AI out there without protection), there would be a system of check-ins to ensure his continued existence, and surveillance would be inserted into his daily routine. 

Epsilon had assumed, given his circumstances, that the pair of former teammates would be former Freelancer agents Washington and Carolina. They were under surveillance, they were decent people and could actually function out there. Wash and Carolina would be the people he’d live with. This could not have been farther from the truth.

* * *

 

Epsilon’s first clue that he was being assigned to someone who wasn’t Wash or Carolina should’ve been the fact that he was shipped out, on a military plane, to Hawaii. It was baffling. He walked out into the airport and was greeted by hot,  _ hot  _ air and a view of the ocean out the airport windows. As far as he’d been told, neither Wash nor Carolina lived in Hawaii. Tucker sure didn’t, he had taken up his old Sangheili ambassador job with Junior. Caboose was… Somewhere. He’d been deemed a danger to the public and himself, had to be assigned someone else to live with him. The only one who had volunteered was Donut, and they were out there doing who knew what. Sarge had ended up back in Iowa, probably scaring his neighbors-

They would’ve assigned him someone on his own team, right? With Tucker out of the question... He was going to end up living with Donut and Caboose. Jesus fucking Christ.

He walked to the address that one UNSC command gal had given him, and stood in front of the squat and run-down little cottage he’d be living in until he drove himself crazy and killed himself again.

When he finally worked up the nerve to walk up the path to the door, it was one realization and revelation after the other. Donut wouldn’t let hibiscus bushes overgrow like this. Donut wouldn’t leave Christmas lights up in March. Donut wouldn’t have a tiny, beat-up car parked in their driveway, with rust around the headlights and a dent on the bumper. Oh, God damn it. God damn it.

His poor test-tube heart fell into his poor test-tube stomach when he rang the doorbell and was greeted by nothing but someone yelling for five minutes. One phrase, over and over. Someone trying to get a roommate to answer the door. Some lazy motherfucker sitting and yelling for some  _ non-lazy _ motherfucker to get the door.

He kept ringing the doorbell. He gave up, knocked on the door with the hand not carrying his luggage- heard someone banging around inside the house, heard squeaks- 

Dexter Grif opened up the door, looking fat and brown and scruffy and very small. He squinted up at Epsilon from his wheelchair, black hair tied back from his face. He looked like he hadn’t aged a day from his military life, septum ring still in place and earlobes still stretched out. If you trimmed his beard, he might just look like a very punk, very grumpy baby.

“I don’t need religion in my life. If you give me a pamphlet, I will drop my pants right here and-”

“Grif, what the  _ fuck.” _

Grif kept peering up at Epsilon, before pulling off his smudged glasses and rubbing them with his shirt. He replaced them, though the cleaning didn’t seem to make a difference, and his eyes snapped open, eyebrows bolting up to his hairline.

“ _ Church? _ Dude, I thought- We all thought you were dead- Wait, what are you doing here, this is my house, I live- Did someone die? Who died. Did Carolina die?”

Epsilon adjusted the bag on his shoulder, trying to give Grif a pointed look. It didn’t work out as well as he thought it would, since Grif just puffed his cheeks out and raised his hands.

“Look, I don’t know why else the dead AI would show up at my door.”

Alright, Epsilon had to retrace his steps. The UNSC said he’d be living with two ex-teammates. They said they’d call ahead and they’d confirmed he’d be living with them and that arrangements had been made. Grif was one of the two ex-teammates, that meant-

“Where’s Simmons.”

Grif turned red. He fidgeted with the arms of his wheelchair, clearing his throat and avoiding eye contact with Epsilon. Jesus, he hadn’t realized Grif was such a bad liar.

“Don’t know what you mean. Just me by myself. All alone. Dead sister and dead mom, just me. Good old Dexter Grif-” 

“Who were you yelling at to answer the door?”

“... My cat.”

“Your cat. Right, so I just need to ask you a few questions. Your name is?"

“Dexter Grif.”

“And you live in?”

“Honolulu, Hawaii.”

“And your husband’s name is?”

“Di- Wait a minute. You just tried to Legally Blonde me.”

Epsilon sighed and nodded, hoisting his bag up higher and brushing past Grif to step inside the house. It was actually surprising how neat it was. Sure, there were a few assorted piles of filth- a stack of video game cases, a bag of fast food garbage- but the overall impression was that someone took care of this house. The furniture was well-loved, the floors were scuffed, there were little tokens of sentimentality scattered about on various tabletops-

“Yeah, I did. It worked, too. Did you grow up here?”

Grif was pretty clearly caught off guard by the question, and he shut the door and turned to follow behind Epsilon as he walked around. 

“Yeah, I. Used to be my mom’s house. She died a while back and since I’m the only surviving Grif, it’s. It’s mine now.”

He shrugged, looking around and scraping his nails against the wheels of his chair. He puffed his cheeks out again, blowing his hair out of his face. Epsilon just kept looking around, taking in his surroundings. If he was going to be living here, he might as well see what the place had to offer. Teal walls, doors to bedrooms and a bathroom, the kitchen visible through a divider, a television on a table with a line of picture frames- Epsilon crouched down to look at those properly. 

An older picture with two smiling little kids on the beach, building a sandcastle. Those same kids, just as roly-poly and happy, sitting on the lap of a woman with grey streaked through her hair. That same brown girl with a backpack and a gap in her teeth, clearly her first day of school. All childhood photos. All Grif and Sister with their mom. Then it was military. Grif, alone, bag on his shoulder, dressed in fatigues, bags under his eyes and trying to muster up a hopeful look. Sister, smiling at the camera, hair in a ponytail and neon green braces on her teeth- blue background… That was a senior picture, used as a memorial. Nothing else to remember their years in the army.

Then, Simmons and Grif in front of the house. Simmons sitting on a beach and reaching toward the camera, fingers out of focus as he laughed. Grif sleeping at the kitchen table with a crudely-drawn penis on his cheek. A Christmas picture, Grif holding mistletoe over Simmons and kissing his cheek, nose squashed against his husband’s cheek as they laughed. Epsilon… Hadn’t ever seen Simmons out of his armor, so he took a good long look. He’d never pegged Simmons’ hair to be a weird strawberry-blonde, or thought he’d have brown eyes- although the freckles, the metal-plated arm, and the glasses were definitely expected. 

Grif cleared his throat from behind Epsilon, almost sounding a little amused.

“Some people take pictures. Come on, I’ll get you set up somewhere. Dick- Uh. Simmons is gonna be back in an hour so. We can go grab dinner or something.”

Epsilon nodded, standing up and running a hand through his hair. It was a little embarrassing to look through things like that and be  _ watched _ , but. Oh well. He picked up his bags and followed behind Grif, ready to deal with whatever this was going to be.

Epsilon was fairly sure it would end up being a shitshow.

* * *

 

11:00 AM, Wednesday. Three hour class. AI Theory and Ethics. Every Wednesday. For the past six months, and the next eighteen. Simmons was working towards a Master’s, and Grif  _ knew this. _ Grif knew that every Wednesday, Simmons woke up, showered, got dressed, made breakfast, left a plate out for Grif, and then walked to his campus. That system was there for Grif’s benefit, not his, and yet Simmons  _ still  _ got texts in the middle of class, telling him to answer the door. 

He slid his phone out of his pocket to call Grif a dumbass, and waited until the lecture was over. It didn’t take long, and he packed his bag quickly and ended up taking the long way around to get home. Stopped and got groceries, left Grif a voicemail, said he’d be home soon, and kept on walking.

He got to the door and set the bags down, patting his pockets and searching for the key before he realized that no, Grif wouldn’t have locked the door. So he just opened the door, walked right on in and set the grocery bags on the kitchen counter, dropped his lanyard in the key basket, planted a kiss on top of Grif’s head and complained about his greasy hair, said hello to the guy dicking around with his phone-

That wasn’t right. Grif folded his arms and looked up at Simmons, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. 

“So, Church said that the UNSC called ahead and told us he’s living with us, now, but they didn’t call me-”  Simmons just shook his head, sighing and tapping Grif’s shoulder with his knuckles.

“I only told you  _ ten fucking times. _ But no, every time, it’s just ‘whatever you say, Dick’, ‘sure, Dick’, because you couldn’t listen!”

Grif just rolled his eyes. Oh, he was infuriating. Same as always. Never listening about anything important, always just blowing it off.  _ Infuriating. _ Simmons decided that the best course of action was not rehashing the same fight again, but angrily putting away groceries. Epsilon just shifted in his seat, raising his eyebrows without looking up from his phone.

“You guys didn’t change at all.” 

“Okay, fuck off, first of all. I have Donut on speed dial and I  _ will _ bring them and Caboose down here. And I am, just. So offended. We did change!”

Simmons piped up, back turned to his conversation partners.

“You don’t even change your clothes. I think you’re incapable of change on any level, honestly.”

“Wow! Wow!”

Epsilon snorted, hand clapped over his mouth so as not to divert Grif’s attention from Simmons. He looked almost shocked, gaping over at his husband who simply continued putting away food. Simmons just continued ignoring him, humming to himself a bit. He hadn’t  _ actually _ hurt Grif’s feelings- as far as he knew, Grif wasn’t ever emotionally available enough to  _ have _ hurt feelings.

“I can see why you chose your name _ , dick _ . See, you. You hurt me. Words hurt!” 

Grif shook his head and wheeled his way out of the kitchen, going off to play at being wounded. It was some kind of ridiculous- the offended pudgy guy puttering off as his half-robot husband calmly sat down at the table and rifled through his bag, being watched by the conglomerate AI roommate. Sounded like a sitcom that never made it past a pilot.

Epsilon cleared his throat and turned in his seat, staring at the side of Simmons’ head as he poked around. Let’s see- there was his datapad, the hardcover copy of his textbook he’d insisted on, a set of headphones, what was he looking for again? Epsilon piped up, throwing off Simmons’ train of thought.

“So, when, when did this start? I mean, Sister’d told me about Grif’s huge fucking crush, but I didn’t- ever consider that had gone anywhere.”

Simmons’ shoulders raised and lowered. He ran a hand through his hair and stuck the eraser end of a pencil into his mouth, chewing. What  _ was  _ he looking for?

“You know when we got transferred out of Blood Gulch that first time? Tucker got his job and Sarge- Sarge went AWOL? That’s when. When did the whole body situation start?”

“Yeah, uh. Protected UNSC asset now? I get anything I want from them since the whole “torturing you to the point of fracturing” thing.”

“Yeah, well, protected UNSC asset, you’re going to be sleeping on the couch. Don’t tattle on us, there’s just no other place for you.”

“ So Grif grew up with his mom and sister in a one bedroom house? Jesus.”

“Two, actually. But you’re not taking over Sister’s room. Actually, just. Don’t mention Sister. At all. As far as you know she never existed. Gone.”

Epsilon shifted uncomfortably in his seat, nodding. Dead relatives were clearly a common thread between the three of them (even if Simmons’ relatives weren’t technically dead, they were as good as it as far as he was concerned). Wait, there it was, pillbottle with Simmons’ name on it, there were his damn anxiety meds. Even though he’d known Epsilon for- well, a long time, it didn’t change the fact that his stomach was knotting up at the prospect of talking to him or going out in public with him or  _ anything really  _ for any extended period of time. He popped open the cap of the bottle, swallowing his prescription dry.

Simmons didn’t exactly have the greatest feeling about how this was going to go.

* * *

 

Grif was the one who ended up helping Epsilon settle in properly, finding a pillow and blanket from the linen closet to throw on the couch. He was used to the routine of sleeping out in the living room, had to do it since he was eleven, so it was easy to reassemble the setup from memory. Simmons had already started studying, datapad and textbook spread out on the kitchen table as he chewed his pencil into a nub. Epsilon had settled into the couch, while Grif just shifted in his chair, rubbing his hands over the wheels as he looked around. 

“So, you've been given the tour, I guess if you wanted you could go out and- I don't know? There's a bar a few miles out and a beach and a movie theater, but I guess. You could hang out here? We’re just going to get food and then probably sleep. So.”

He shrugged, already feeling waves of discomfort as he realized the changes he'd have to make. He didn't know Epsilon’s routine, Epsilon could- ask for something to change, could demand they renovate he could want to turn Kaikaina’s room into a study he could do so many things that would turn Grif’s routine into garbage and it would all have to be done because they had offered to house Epsilon they had offered oh God no. 

Alright, He just needed to calm down. That wasn't going to happen. Epsilon was a nice guy. He did- He did good things. Grif was sure he had done some good things at some point to someone. Grif was just panicking, sort of. What was it he'd had it called, obsessive invasive thoughts. No. Intrusive. Obsessive intrusive thoughts. He just had to focus, focus on-

Too late, Grif realized that Epsilon had been talking while he had been working himself up into an anxious frenzy. 

“...Don't ever really sleep at all, and I have no  fucking clue if I can get drunk, so I guess we either experiment with that or we just get some dinner and let it be.”

Epsilon stood up from the couch to go unpack his bags, nudging Grif’s shoulder in some kind of attempt to get him to decide. 

“Uh, yeah. Sure. I'm not in the mood for drinking, really, uh, so. Let’s just get a pizza or something.”

Enter Simmons, hurling completely unwarranted passive aggression. 

“Not in the mood for drinking? That's a first.”

Grif had known Simmons for upwards of ten years, and he still never failed to make him feel like shit at that drop of a hat. It was a talent that Grif would've respected, had it, you know, not made him feel like shit. Sometimes Grif wondered if he had a problem with forming personal relationships that weren't based on some kind of bad system of interdependence and verbal abuse. Sometimes he wondered. 

Seven hours, two pizzas, a bad horror movie, and five snide remarks later, Grif was in enough radiating pain to actually get up and go to bed. He didn't usually sleep this early, but lying in a cocoon of blankets and hurting was better than being uncomfortable around acquaintances and hurting. So he bundled himself up into sweatpants and an old shirt, set his glasses and Simmons’ dog tags and his rings on the nightstand and curled up into bed and closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He counted seconds to pass the time, counted to one hundred, did that once, twice, three times, you do that twelve times you have an hour, you do  _ that _ three times and you get how long Simmons sat out in the kitchen studying and bickering with his new roommate. The door squeaked open, creaking on its hinges as it always had, and Simmons plodded on in. Grif sat up a bit, watching as his husband stripped down to old lacy green underwear. Hawaii- if it was too hot to even wear a binder, it was too hot to put on pajamas.

That wasn’t to say the heat stopped Simmons from peeling back Grif’s blanket layers, sprawling out across the worn mattress and flopping a hand over his eyes. Grif uncurled himself, joints protesting as he shifted his big bundle of blankets closer to Simmons and propped his chin up on his hand.

“What got you so worked up today? You knew Church was comin’.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, bullshit, dude, you’ve been all weird and passive aggressive since you saw Church.” 

“It’s nothing, Gr- Dex. Go to bed.”

“Look, I’m going to bed but if you default back to that bitchy, snippy little brown-noser you were because somebody from that fucking canyon turned up, I’ll- I’ll mail your robot arm to Sarge.”

“Right, whatever. At least I changed  _ somewhat. _ ”

Grif started to snip back at him, but the reply choked and withered and died in his throat. He hurt, he just wanted to go to bed, and- It was fine. He’d be fine, Dick would be fine, it was all just an upset in routine, the system just got fucked with, you don’t  _ fuck _ with the  _ system _ . They’d work Epsilon into the system, and everything- everything would be okay! It would all work out.

It would all work out, Grif told himself as he buried his head in blankets, full-body shiver pulsing down his spine. It would all work out.


	2. Redress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epsilon attempts human emotion, Simmons apologizes, Caboose figures out where his friends went, and Grif manages to shower.

Epsilon woke up from his catnap at five A.M. with a crick in his neck and Simmons pacing behind the couch. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and scowling. If this was going to be a regular thing, Epsilon was going to do something drastic. Something  _ drastic. _

“Do you do this every night?”

Simmons made a noise like a dying bird and bolted into the kitchen. Jesus Christ. Epsilon was going to end up stuffing the squawking half-naked loser in the fridge. Really, he was almost- well, Epsilon didn’t know how old he was, but he was a married adult and he had no business worrying in the living room  _ so loudly _ . Epsilon just crawled up onto his knees to lean over the back of the couch, trying to peer into the kitchen.

“I’m serious, man. This isn’t gonna work out if you flip out every night.”

“I don’t flip out every night! I’m not flipping out! I’m- I’m not even here. This is a dream. You’re dreaming.”

“Nice try. My dream-Simmons is always fully clothed.”

“Now I’m insulted.”

“You’re  _ married _ . Do you want me to have wet dreams about you? Don’t make this weird.”

“Hey, look, I am- I am the undisputed  _ king  _ of making it weird.”

Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Epsilon leaned out further, eyebrows furrowed, trying to see what was going on. There was definitely rummaging around in a cabinet, or a fridge, or something. Five A.M. snacks were a tolerable kind of weird, compared to some things he'd lived with. Simmons was muttering to himself and Epsilon just leaned further over the chair and further and there he was wobbling and pitching forward and faceplanting into the carpet. Great. From what he could see, with his face all mashed up against the floor, Simmons was digging through the freezer and muttering to himself. What an odd guy. Epsilon just rolled himself onto his back, ran a hand through his hair, and stared up at the ceiling. 

“See, if you were a better friend, this would be the part where you would ask me what was wrong, and maybe try to give me helpful advice or reassure me that I’m not- A lot of things.”

“I spent four years trying to kill you and everyone on your team and you’re lecturing me about not being a better friend? I- I didn’t even know your first name until we were off Chorus! Besides, you are  _ exactly _ the type of person who says that kind of shit about wanting their problems to be asked about, and then tells me anyways.”

“No I wasn’t going to-! I was just saying I wanted to be better friends, because- Oh,  _ fuck it _ .”

Epsilon heard the door slam and heard Simmons walk over to the couch and fall on it and throw his limbs all over the place. He had to sleep there, jerk. Find your own place to pout. Even if Epsilon couldn’t get in a solid hour of sleep on a good day, he still liked having his own area. But Simmons sort of owned the house, so he could sort of mope on Epsilon’s bed, if it was absolutely necessary. He stood up to lean on the couch, elbows propped up on the back as he looked down at the whining lump lying on his bed. 

“You’re not gonna let me go back to sleep, are you.”

“If I have to be miserable, I’m making someone else miserable too. And making Dex- Grif miserable doesn’t help, and you’re the only one around that might help, so.”

“You’re a dick. Sit up and move over, you’ve got video games. I’m not gonna sit here and listen to your bitchin’ yet, we’re not that close.” 

Simmons grumbled, lobbing a pillow over at Epsilon before sitting up to make room. Somehow he managed to get his legs folded up and took up a  _ tiny _ area for someone who was so ridiculously tall. There was a little white flower tattooed on his shoulder, light blue ribbon inked around it, and a big plate of metal over the side of his ribcage with his vital readings, and- Alright, Epsilon, stop staring. He really needed to be around people out of full-body armor more often. So he just looked away, leaned over to nudge Simmons’ shoulder, and set to work on being completely obliterated at some generic multiplayer first-person-shooter. Simmons fell asleep an hour in, and Epsilon just moved to cover him up halfway with a blanket.

This was a tolerable kind of weirdness.

* * *

 

Anxiety was Simmons’ default state. He worried about what people said about him, he worried about what people thought about him, he worried about what he said to people- He was anxious! He had a proper excuse! Sure, sometimes his being anxious had repercussions, and he got angry and defensive and people reacted poorly and he got upset, and he woke up at five in the morning to pace and mutter and try not to break down.

So he wasn’t at all surprised that he was curled up on the couch when the sun rose and shined through the windows, filtered in through the overgrown bushes outside. Those really needed to be trimmed back. He’d get to it, eventually. What day was it, he went to class yesterday he slept it was- Thursday. Ohhh, he had messed up yesterday. He had been a grade-A jackass yesterday. He  _ really _ had to fix this today. How was he going to do that, he’d need to write out an apology to figure out the most-effective way to do it, get some kind of apology token like food, or-

Alright,  _ breathe. _ Jesus Christ. He was a grown man. So, like a grown man, he was going to find Grif those painkillers he lost somewhere, go out and buy him a movie and frozen yogurt, sit down in bed with him, and apologize. That would work. He  _ really _ hoped it would work, God, he felt like such an ass every time he upset someone, even if he kind-of sort-of meant to upset them.  Shit, sometimes he was just awful. At least he had a plan, right? He had screwed up, but he was going to- he was going to  _ try _ .

At seven A.M. he bolted up off the couch and kicked Epsilon’s controller out of his hand in the process. There was no need for him to be so quick and so panicky about it, because hey, Grif wouldn’t be awake for another four hours, but Simmons liked to think he worked better under pressure. He didn’t, but sometimes he liked to think that. So he snuck into his bedroom and threw on a sweatshirt, stuffed his keychain and his wallet in his pocket, and just drove. He cursed himself for getting up so early- of course nowhere would be open. 

He ended up with three bags full of food that nobody  _ needed _ strapped into the passenger seat of the car and a refilled prescription rolling around somewhere in the car. He’d lost track of where the pillbottle had gone but so help him God he was going to find it before Grif woke up. When Simmons apologized, he  _ committed.  _ He didn’t apologize often so dammit, he was going to make it count. At this point he was psyching himself out. Maybe he should just dump the food, run away and change his name- it worked when he signed up for the army after he dropped out of high school! Oh God he was going to ruin everything.

He pulled into the driveway and sat in the driver’s seat of the car, head bowed forward and rested against the steering wheel. It was nine in the morning and he was sitting in a car that smelled like hashbrowns, and trying not to cry. How glamorous. It was like he was in one of those PSAs- don’t drop out of high school to join the army, you’ll develop debilitating anxiety which, in reality, may-or-may-not have  _ actually _ stemmed from the absolutely horrific, reprehensible things your dad did to you! He really needed to talk to his psychiatrist, Jesus Christ. Well, nothing to it but to do it, right? All he had to do was tear the car apart for Grif’s prescription and then march on inside and apologize. He could do that. Simmons leaned back, took a deep breath, closed his eyes, steeled himself. He could do this.

He went inside the house and threw a bag of fast food breakfast at Church. Lazy asshat was still sitting on the couch, playing Halo or some bullshit. One of these days, Simmons was going to find some non-lazy roommate in addition to these two. He needed a change of pace sometimes. Sometimes, not this time, because right now he really needed to be a decent person for once. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it! He stood outside his own damn bedroom with a grocery bag hanging from his wrist and clutching a pillbottle and holding a bag of fucking cold fast food, standing there and  _ staring _ . Idiot. Oh well, just had to steel himself prepare himself get ready open the door-

* * *

As a general rule, Grif couldn’t operate all that well outside of power armor. His knees wobbled and buckled and his arms gritted in their sockets and his spine creaked and his hips hurt something awful. He  _ hurt _ . The UNSC, all glory be unto them and all that BS, had given them the resources to see psychiatrists and get prescriptions filled and go into physical therapy.  _ Fuck _ that, because if he couldn’t get out of bed, he sure as hell wasn’t going to go out and see some perky, smiling doctor that’d tell him to eat more vegetables and go outside more. He was fine with the occasional pain pill and a whole lot of complaining.

So when Grif woke up early that morning because of those wonderful, wonderful shooting pains in his leg, he just figured he’d have to wake someone up to whine about it. He rolled over, reaching out to pat at where Simmons should be. That was a little odd. Normally Simmons would sneak his way into Grif’s blanket-burrito and wrap himself around Grif, despite his complaints about overheating. Even when Simmons was in a bad mood, he’d still be  _ in bed _ . So this was, overall, just a little bit odd. He tossed his blankets off, staring up at the ceiling and absently patting his stomach. Church was still in the living room, and Grif could hear him shrieking insults at the other players that were no doubt obliterating his ass. He sure was one angry little dude. 

A car pulled into the driveway, throwing up gravel that hit against the side of the house. Well, there was Simmons, accounted for. He must’ve gone out for one reason or another. Grif stretched, joints popping, and patted over at his nightstand blindly. He couldn’t see for shit, where were his-

And  _ there _ Simmons was, loaded down with too much shit for a Thursday morning and looking like he was about to cry. Grif sat up, squinted, ran a hand through his hair. 

“Hey, uh, good morning- I, went out and got breakfast, and that frozen yogurt, you said you liked? I remembered you liked a fruit but not which one, so there’s kiwi and pineapple and strawberry, and, I filled your prescription! Because. It was empty.”

He was babbling, voice wavering up an octave and cracking. Simmons was really just a blob in Grif’s vision, but he could tell that his face had gone red. What a fucking loser. Grif just nodded, waving a hand over at his husband. 

“Mornin’. Just, just toss the breakfast n’ pills here and stick everything else in the freezer. I’m just gonna shower.”

“Oh. But I wanted to apologize for…”

Simmons trailed off, looking down at his feet and shifting his weight for a moment before tossing everything over at Grif and slipping back outside of the bedroom. Now, Grif knew what he wanted to apologize for, and he fully supported this. However, he was going to keep Simmons on the hook for a little while longer, just to make him squirm. Jesus, Grif had been under so many people’s thumbs for so long, he figured that once in a while he was  _ sort of _ allowed a little revenge. Was that so awful? Maybe it was. Oh well. He stuffed his breakfast in his mouth and dry-swallowed his pain meds, standing up and wobbling off to hopefully not collapse in the shower. 

He ended up sitting on the floor of the shower for half an hour until he actually started feeling decent. Another half hour, and his hair was washed, his entire self cleaned up, and his teeth brushed. It felt like some kind of miracle. He debated trimming his beard, but now wasn’t the time to get too crazy. Baby steps. Simmons was sitting on the bed when Grif stepped out of the bathroom, worry tangible from ten feet away. Grif flopped onto the mattress, shirtless and still wet but overall, fat and happy. 

“Alright, dude. Now you can apologize.”

He felt Simmons shift, hands moving under Grif to pull him up onto his lap. Sure was a feat, but Simmons was pretty strong. Cybernetically-enhanced everything and sort of halfway sticking to a workout regiment would do that.

“You’re an ass. And- I’m sorry for being such a- well, a dick yesterday. You hadn’t really done anything.”

Grif bumped his forehead against Simmons’ chest, reaching up to cup his cheeks and tug him down to kiss him. Their glasses bumped together, and their big dumb noses got squished, and Simmons shook and hiccuped and  _ maybe,  _ just maybe, Grif got a bit choked up. It had been a long time since anyone had apologized for when they’d screwed him over or hurt him. Let a guy live. Simmons pulled back, winding his arms around Grif’s shoulders and resting his chin on top of Grif’s head.

“You brushed your teeth.”

“Don’t expect it to be a regular thing, my ass will not be able to get outta bed and do that every day.”

“I’ll enjoy it while it lasts, then. Asshole.”

“Remember that time you stole all my shit because you kissed me when I was really gross?”

“Oh, what is it, make Dick feel like shit day?”

“To you guys it’s been make Dexter feel like shit-decade, so pardon me for getting some back.”

“Point taken.”

Grif slipped the tips of his fingers under Simmons’ shirt, humming and chewing his lip absently. Sure, his years in the army sucked, but he met a few people who turned out to be not-awful after a while. There had been- there had been-

There had been… Well, he was sure there were a few people besides Simmons that he’d liked. Donut hadn’t been awful- even if they didn’t call very often, Grif still liked chatting with them when he could- That was a hand grabbing his ass. That wasn’t even subtle, it was just straight-up, Simmons’ hand going down the back of his underwear. Grif bumped his forehead against Simmons’ chest, tracing the pads of his fingers over the edge of Simmons’ metal rib-plating. There was a little LED screen on the side, with one of those jagged intermittent lines that displayed heartbeats, and it glowed softly through his shirt. Swallowing, shifting, nervous, Grif rested a cheek against his husband’s collarbone, leaning in to nibble under his jaw. Simmons stiffened. 

And it escalated. It escalated,  _ incredibly _ quickly. It escalated into Simmons with his shirt hiked up to his armpits and his legs propped up on Grif’s shoulders, and Grif pressing kisses on Simmons’ belly, and-

And Epsilon barging into their room without knocking, phone in hand. His eyebrows shot up, eyes blowing wide. What an asshole. If you were going to walk into people’s rooms, you either knocked, or you didn’t look surprised when you interrupted explicit activities. Nobody had the time to properly react in any capacity before Caboose’s voice spat through the phone.

“When can I visit Church!”

* * *

Caboose was cold. It was March, it was Fort  _ Somewhere _ , Iowa, it was snowing, and Caboose was cold. His feet were cold in his fuzzy socks and his boots, his hands were cold in his jacket pockets, and his nose was cold in his scarf. He was waiting, at five AM, for Donut to get off their bus so the former soldier didn’t have to walk home alone. He bounced on his toes, stuffing his hands further down into his pockets. Donut worked evenings, Caboose didn’t sleep, even the cat slept most of the day- this household was completely nocturnal. 

He raised his hand to the back of his neck, tracing over the silver scars that ran up under his hairline from his neural implants. Sometimes it sparked, sending little barbed-wire pokes into his brain. That was alright, though. Caboose didn’t mind all that much. It wasn’t that he was used to it, it just- Didn’t bother him. He tugged his cap down to cover up his ears.

There was the bus, there it was there the bus was! Caboose flapped his hands inside his jacket, still bouncing. It pulled up into the stop, Donut the only one sitting inside it. They got off, thanked the bus driver, and Caboose swooped them up immediately. Donut was five and a half feet of super-best friend and it was Caboose’s job to get them home safely.

“Hello!”

Donut laughed, pressing their nose against Caboose’s cheek. They was still warm from the bus, chin-scruff scratchy against Caboose’s chin, and when he set Donut down they wrapped their coat up around their work clothes. 

“He-e-ey! You do know I don’t need somebody to come and get me. I like walking!”

“But it is not safe, and you are very small, and you should definitely have someone walk with you. Yes.”

Caboose nodded. There was a pebble in his jacket pocket, and he pressed it into the palm of his hand, turned it over and over. He had never been to this planet before now, not that he could remember, but he couldn’t remember a lot of things, so he trusted the people who told him about crimes and nighttime strolls on this. Donut  _ was _ very small, Caboose had to look down a lot to see his eyes, and if it was very late he could get hurt by someone. So he walked down three roads and up a hill to get Donut home, humming off-tune to himself, Donut looping their arm around Caboose’s waist. 

The road to properly get to their house wasn’t a lot more than a beaten-down dirt trail with cornfields on either side, farmhouses with trucks up on blocks in the backyard, chicken wire strung up around little coops. There was snow dusting everything, still falling, collecting on Caboose’s camouflage cap and the chicken coops and the trucks and the cornfields. He liked snow. It made a good noise and had a good texture when you stepped on it. He didn’t ever have snow up on the moon outpost he lived on, just had thin little films of ice that covered up everything when it got cold. He had liked his old moon outpost.

They reached the house just as the sun was peeking up over the horizon, picking up yesterday’s mail off the doorstep before going inside. Donut sifted through the mail as they hung up their jacket, head tilted to read with their only good eye. Caboose liked watching Donut read, they’d always mumble along and mouth the words. He shook his cap off and stomped his boots clear of snow, catching the chain of his dog tags in his mouth and clicking his teeth against the beads. Metal was a bad taste, reminded him of back when he was stationed on that moon outpost when he was younger and they’d poke things into his neural implants, and it had made him feel like how metal tasted. He didn’t like that other moon outpost or the metal taste, but he liked the texture of his chain, so he pushed through it. He tried to think of what was next to do, since he’d already left his night class and picked up Donut and come home. His hands fidgeted idly, tucking and untucking the pockets of his jacket. What did he have to do next. Go to class, get Donut, go home-

Caboose was so deep in thought, eyebrows furrowed as he stared at nothing, that he had stopped watching Donut. Donut, who had ripped open one of the letters they’d received, the one with a UNSC colony return address and written in Carolina’s spidery scrawl. Caboose was pulled from his thoughts when Donut squealed, bouncing on their toes as they read.

“Church got sent off that restricted-access rock! He’s got a body now, ‘Boose, and he got sent to live with- not Wash, not Sarge, not… He got sent to live with Grif! And Simmons! Aww, that’s so sweet- You should call them and see what’s-”

Donut got cut off before they could finish, Caboose picking them up and spinning them around happily. He was inarticulate with happiness. It took him a long,  _ long  _ time to bring himself down from that, and even then his hands wouldn’t be stopped. He sat, excited, with the phone on speaker as it rang on the other end. It rang, and it rang. And it rang. And it clicked.

“I-I guess I just answer, this I just- Hello?”

“Church!”

“Jesus Christ.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> second chapter! it's still in exposition sort of so this and the next chapter might be a little slow still, but it'll pick up once everyone gets together.  
> i post a lot of headcanons relating to this story on my tumblr, grif-exe. it's all tagged as #tfcc and #pastry express tag  
> next chapter should be up by next week!


	3. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donut and Caboose visit, Grif gets drunk, Epsilon gets worried.

Caboose hated planes. They smelled and they were loud and airports were too confusing and everything tasted bad and when he came out of airports he always felt like he brought the airport home in his clothes. Airports were bad. They were _ bad _ . Even if he was traveling with someone he actually liked, airports made him chew his lip hard and hum loudly and off-tune. He clung to Donut’s hand through the plane ride and the walk outside, nails scratching over the grooves of their cybernetic fingers. He’d only lived on Earth for less than six months, and he’d already visited two completely different places. It was  _ hot _ here, he walked out of the plane and he felt heat curl up under his jacket, cozy for a minute and then just uncomfortable. Donut clung onto Caboose tightly, their arms wrapped around his so as not to get lost. It was a little bit ridiculous, but it made sense to them- they were both only used to cold and quiet and  _ smallness _ , family farmhouses and military moon compounds. Neither of them wanted to get lost, Caboose thought. He and Donut had to stick together. 

The two of them wandered for a long time, Donut dragging Caboose to the cheap touristy gift shops inside the airport to buy t-shirts and fridge magnets. It was partially because Donut really wanted souvenirs, and partially because  _ man, we are so freaking lost right now.  _ They wandered around, sitting and watching people walk by, just waiting. It took an hour, but they  _ did  _ get an angry phone call from Simmons, who hollered through Donut’s phone that he had been waiting for a  _ long time _ , and if those two didn’t hurry their asses up he would leave them there. Donut took a flying, squealing leap at Simmons when they finally found him, hugging him tightly. Simmons was not exactly receptive, and was even less so when Caboose lifted him a foot off the ground. He just stuffed their bags in the trunk when he was released, cheeks bright red as he cursed Donut and Caboose under his breath. Caboose had to wedge himself into the back seat of the car, shoulders curled down and feet rested on the other seat. Everything was always too small for him. Donut and Simmons were holding a conversation up in the front seat as they drove, but Caboose wasn’t very interested. He stared out the window and watched the scenery go by, humming to himself and scratching his nails over the beveled letters of his dog tags. 

Simmons reached behind himself to swat at Caboose’s knee, pulling him out of his head and making him focus on the people in the car with him. What had happened. He had lost the train of thought he was on, and was now thoroughly confused. Where was he.

“Caboose, uh-”

“Hello!”

“Yes, hi, Caboose- Fuck, I don’t even know your name, Jesus- uh, do you. Do you drink, like, I get the whole ex-Spartan thing, but I have no idea if you. Uh. If you drink. Alcohol.”

“Simmons, you can’t just _ask_ someone that!”

“Alright, Donut, you can shut up, first of all, I was talking to Caboose.”

The two of them got off-track, bickering for the rest of the drive and apparently forgetting the original line of questioning. Caboose was fine with this, really. He had tried alcohol, didn’t ever get drunk from it (physically incapable and all that), didn’t like it all that much, but Simmons didn’t seem too invested in figuring out the answer. The arguing lapsed into something like soothing background noise, Caboose closing his eyes and humming contentedly as he listened. Airports might be  _ awful _ , but car rides? Car rides were relaxing and slow and felt  _ good. _ Caboose would take a ten hour car ride over an hour-long plane trip. He ended up falling asleep, curled up in a ball in the backseat as Simmons and Donut bickered. 

When he woke up, they were pulling into the driveway, and the argument had apparently been resolved. Simmons leaned on the horn, startling Caboose, making him jump and hit the roof of the car. Church and Grif emerged from the house a moment later, properly dressed up for an evening out.

Church.  _ Church. Church! _

They all ended up pouring out of the car, Caboose scooping Church up and hugging him tightly enough that Church started hollering about needing to go to the emergency room. Bags were tossed inside and seats were shuffled around, Donut, Caboose, and Church sitting in the back while Grif drove, and Simmons held his hand over the gear shift. It was nice. Caboose got to sit next to his best friend and chatter with him and listen to how Church’s life had been going. He bounced his feet on the floor as best he could, but really just ended up hitting his knees against his chest. He was too big for this car, a fact Church laughed at. It felt like a reunion. It felt nice. 

Caboose watched out the window as he talked, watching where they drove and trying to commit the details to memory. It was green, even this early in spring-

“Grif! You are so lucky to live here! It is so pretty!”

“Wh- Uhh. Thanks, Caboose. It’s kind of a shithole when you grow up here, but.”

Grif’s shoulders raised, and Simmons squeezed his hand. Caboose could understand that. His own colony had been awful, just terrible, but that was only because he had lived there all his life. The people who had visited for testing had always remarked on how nice it was, how pretty the terraforming was, how the view of the planet was so nice. Caboose hadn’t cared about the view or the plants. He’d just wanted to leave, and he was one of the few actually  _ lucky  _ to have gotten out alive. Gotten out of- gotten out of where? What had he been thinking about. Caboose had gotten out of-

“Alright, outta the car, fuckers. We’re here.”

* * *

 

As it turned out, only two of the five people currently in the party could get drunk. And, as it also turned out, Epsilon was  _ really fucking glad  _ those two people were Grif and Donut. Caboose couldn’t get drunk, for whatever fucked up Spartan reason, and Simmons sat there nursing a strawberry daiquiri the entire night and shot down Epsilon every time he tried to order something. Sure, it could be totally okay, but he would  _ not  _ be held responsible for Epsilon’s death right now, so you have to wait. Sure, Epsilon bitched, but he would much rather watch this shitshow sober.

Grif, to Epsilon’s surprise, cried when he was drunk. He was very weepy, very open about his life, and very,  _ very _ affectionate. Grif had gotten Simmons squished into the corner of the booth, arms looped around his waist and wet, puffy face pressed into his shoulder. Epsilon watched as Grif hiccuped and talked about the overgrown jasmine bushes his sister planted in the backyard, how much he really did like Simmons’ mop of curly hair, how the first tattoo he got was a little star on the inside of his missing wrist that matched with his first boyfriend. By the end of the night, Epsilon knew a lot more than he ever needed to know about Grif. 

Donut was… something else. Epsilon watched them down at least five pink-hued mixed drinks in the span of six minutes, walk up to the bar and perch themself on a stool, and belt out a good twenty minutes of some Broadway musical before Caboose crossed the bar and picked them up to go sit in the car. Those two stayed in the car while Grif sprawled onto Simmons’ lap and sobbed. It had gotten to an incomprehensible level. Epsilon could make out a few words, assumed it was about him being drafted- he picked up a few words out of what wasn’t slurred or not in English. Jesus, Grif, everyone had their issues during high school. They didn’t all cry in their husband’s lap about them. 

Alright, that might have been a little cruel. Epsilon admonished himself mentally, telling himself not to be such a fucking  _ dick.  _ Have a little compassion for a guy once in awhile. He made up for it by looping an arm around Grif’s waist when it was time to leave, helping Simmons haul him out of the bar and into the backseat. Donut and Caboose were sitting pretty in their respective seats, hair ruffled and clothes rumpled- thinking they were so slick. Look at those two. Hey, at least they were happy, right? At least everyone was happy, Donut and Caboose, and Simmons and Grif- Was Epsilon happy? He hoped he was happy. He helped haul Grif into the backseat, slumping him up against Caboose’s shoulder. Caboose was a responsible adult, hopefully he’d keep Grif from falling out a window or rolling under the seat. Epsilon got shunted into the passenger seat, feet propped up on the dashboard as Simmons drove home. They sat in silence for a while, Epsilon watching the lights outside blur into streaks. Simmons cleared his throat, spoke up.

“You, uh. You haven’t asked yet.”

“You’re right, Simmons. I’ve had that deep, aching question on my mind  _ all night _ . How  _ do _ you cool yourself with freon?”

“You’re an ass. I just, I thought you were wondering why I wasn’t drinking-”

“Look, dude, I’m not gonna question you about shit like that. It’s your business, not mine, I didn’t sign up for your life story.”

Simmons went quiet, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Epsilon took a good, long look at him. He liked looking at people, figuring out how their faces moved- it affirmed that they were real. If something could move like that, little movements, twitches, things like that, then they’d do that when he wasn’t looking, they’d keep existing. Things kept existing when he looked away, he always had to tell himself. This was real. The yellow neon strips that lit up Simmons’ face and made his glasses glow. The way his teeth caught on his lip as he drove, focused and attentive. The scar through his eyebrow. The snoring and shuffling and clothes rustling from the backseat.

That was all real. That was all a little too real. Epsilon turned his attention back to the window, pressing the back of his hand against his cheek. It was dark outside, trees an houses turning into black blobs against the sky. Sure, this wasn’t exactly the sticks, the boonies, whatever, but it also wasn’t a stuffy orbital observation station or a city-sized spaceship. This was a change of pace, in the least. 

He must have drifted off, because the next thing he remembered was the car door slamming and Caboose knocking his head on the roof of the car again. Donut rapped a metal knuckle on the window, earning a slurred holler from Grif to not shatter the fucking window, Jesus-

Yeah, this was real. Epsilon stretched out and sat for a moment longer. Like it or not, this was real.

* * *

 

Drunk people were a complete pain in Simmons’ ass. Sure, Grif didn’t get drunk often, but it was often enough that Simmons’ stomach twisted into a cold little ball. Simmons was a worrisome man, always had been, and you bet that worrying didn’t just apply to him. Step right up, folks, see the show- man develops anxiety so incredible, it extends to loved ones and enemies as  _ well  _ as himself! If only it were a marketable skill. He didn’t have many that weren’t overshadowed by the- well, the everything else. The spite and the anger and all those wonderful things. God, he hated so many things about, well, so many things. 

He didn’t hate Grif, though. Even when hauling his sloppy-drunk ass into the bathroom so he could throw up into the sink, tying his hair back into a bun, Simmons didn’t hate him. You didn’t hate a guy who had been through so much, who you had gone through so much with. You just didn’t. So Simmons helped him into bed, bundled him up in blankets and leaned his wheelchair up against the nightstand for tomorrow. Grif mumbled and scrubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, eyes red and puffy. Simmons felt his stomach knot again. Jesus, the guy was still grieving, he didn’t have anyone, really, Grif just kept breaking down and hurting. Simmons leaned over to kiss his forehead, let him sleep while he figured out sleeping arrangements. 

As it turned, out, that was no damn picnic. Sister’s room was about as off-limits as something could get, which left the couch, the floor, or the happy married couple’s bed. Donut claimed the couch by hitting their knees on the arm of it and going sprawling, already out before their head hit the cushions. Caboose proclaimed that he didn’t ever sleep much, at all really, and parked himself in front of the couch. He asked if Simmons had anything he could read, wanted to keep up with his classes while he was visiting. Donut snoring away on the couch, Caboose with his head buried in an AI ethics textbook- it was a nice sight. 

“Alright, that’s three out of four. So, Church, you- you don’t have any issue with sleeping on the floor, right?”

Epsilon looked at Simmons like he’d grown another head. Unsurprisingly, Simmons did not enjoy being looked at like that. He had half a mind to punch Epsilon for- No, no. No! Jesus, no.

“You’ve got half a bed left, right? Just, you and Grif can squish in, I’ll take the other half. I’m not a very big guy, and you two are, uh. You’re-”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Get in there.”

Deep breath, asshole. No need to be consumed with rage for the rest of the night because of a guy  _ looking _ at you. Simmons just waved Epsilon on into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him after peeking back at Donut and Caboose one last time. Grif rolled over in his sleep, one foot poking out of the blankets he was wrapped up in. Epsilon looked around and seemed- well, more than a little lost. It looked like the guy didn’t know what to do- what kind of guy hadn’t had to share a bed with a buddy once or twice? Maybe the kind of guy who was technically an AI chip in a meat suit and didn’t ever really get the chance for human experiences. Simmons sat down on the bed to tug his shirt up over his head and curl up tight around Grif, thumb tracing circles over a raised scar on his husband’s belly. 

“So, what, I just get into bed with you two and, squish myself onto the edge-”

“Just get into bed, it’s not fucking theoretical physics.”

“You’re right, cause I could do that without feeling like a creep.”

Epsilon grumbled for a bit longer,  _ finally _ flopping down hard and curling up into a ball. His face was scrunched up, nose wrinkled and cheeks flushed. Maybe it was too hot, there were three people in the room, it was pretty muggy for spring- Well, he’d live, wouldn’t he. A little heat wouldn’t kill him, he could do with a little  _ wow _ Simmons sure did need to get this stupid cycle-of-revenge bullshit done and over with! This was something you brought up to a psychiatrist, right? Ah, well.

He rested his chin on top of Grif’s head, eyes closed and arm tangled up in blankets and cold feet pressed up against Grif’s leg. It was nice. Nothing was really different, there wasn’t anything weird going on, he was content and settled in. He managed to sleep without too much issue, tuning out everyone else’s rustling and noise. Here Simmons was, with a house and someone to curl up with at night, and working on a degree- Things were good, he thought, as he drifted off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> third chapter whoohoo i am just trucking along  
> im starting to push more towards things that will eventually cause conflict and forward the plot so things! will be picing up soon!  
> my tumblr is still grif-exe so if you have any questions or want to send me stuff about this then hmu there!


	4. Remind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Panic ensues, comfort ensues, and Donut gets a call from the president.

Grif woke up early. Too early. Far too early. It was bright, four thirty in the morning, his head was pounding, his stomach felt like it was trying to escape through his throat, and he was sandwiched between two freezing cold  _ fucking assholes _ . Neither of the two people he was cuddled up with should be cold, but here he was. Simmons had his metal hand sneaking under Grif’s shirt, nose pressed up in his hair, and whoever the hell else was in his bed had cold, cold feet touching Grif’s leg. Overall, this was not one of his preferred ways of waking up- hungover, hurting, and half-frozen? Count him out. 

Well… Count him out any other time. Right now he could tolerate- hell, even  _ enjoy _ -the hand kneading his stomach and the fidgety mystery-man curled up around him. Grif still wasn’t sure who that was, exactly. Too small to be Caboose, too smelly to be Donut, not long enough to be Simmons (who was behind him and definitely couldn’t be in two places at once)- had to be Epsilon. Epsilon made for a decent bedmate, at least, and he was content to let him cling tightly around his neck, face squished into his chest. If he didn’t like it, he’d just wake up and move- Grif wasn’t bothered by it, he wouldn’t say anything and run the risk of embarrassing himself. He just laced his fingers through dark, curly hair and pressed back against Simmons, closing his eyes and counting his bedmates breaths as he drifted off again.

Grif woke up again to a knee in the balls, and a good morning to you too, Leonard. He curled inward, suddenly in a whole lot more pain than was tolerable. Simmons bolted up blearily, hand darting out to the nightstand and yanking the drawer open, rummaging inside, brandishing- 

“Put the gun down, Jesus  _ Christ,  _ you lunatic, you haven’t even got it loaded-”

Grif swatted at his husband’s hand, knocking the pistol onto the floor. It was always like this. Every bump in the night and Simmons would leap up in a frenzy, waking Grif up with the tangible panic he exuded. Then again, it couldn’t really be denied- that was a pretty legitimate response after everything that had happened to Simmons. So Grif just prevented him from trying to shoot Epsilon, let him get grounded and figure out what the hell was going on, then peered over the edge of the bed to see if Epsilon was alright. He had a foot tangled in the sheet and was sprawled on the floor, face screwed into a grimace and bright red. 

“Good fucking morning to you too- Do you do this to everyone? Suffocate them while they’re asleep, and try to shoot them-”

“Church, you woke me up by trying to fucking become one with me. I was  _ not  _ suffocating anyone.”

Epsilon just went quiet at that, groaning from his position on the floor and covering his face. He looked like he wanted to melt through the floor, and possibly through to the other side of the planet. Grif almost felt a little sorry for him.

“Look, I’m not- I’m not, that- Jesus Christ, I need to-”

Epsilon tried to get up, stumbled, yanked most of the sheets of the bed and swore as he banged into the doorframe. Yikes. Grif just watched as he huffed his way out of the room, clearly embarrassed or angry or both. In his opinion, this. Didn’t seem like something to react like that over. That little dude seemed like he needed some kind of counseling- Well, that was probably shitty to think, of course the guy needed counseling, he’d only killed himself three or four times, ended up displaced, no family- Jesus. He’d be fine. Probably. He’d get over the internal “no homo” or whatever that was eventually. 

Simmons was also more than a little out of sorts due to this interruption in the morning routine. It had always been hard for him to adjust to changes in the routine- hard for both of them, actually. Having woken up earlier had definitely helped Grif adapt a little quicker, let him compartmentalize and adjust. Simmons hadn’t gotten that opportunity, and he was curled in on himself, one hand curled into a fist and dug into the side of his thigh. His chest hitched, pupils blown wide, sand-colored eyebrows meeting his hairline-

“Hey. Hey. You’re okay.”

Grif was quiet when he spoke up, sitting up and kicking his legs out over the edge of the bed. His toes didn’t touch the floor, that couple of inches of air- He leaned heavily on the side of the bed as he slipped out, knees buckling for an instant before he could right himself again. The door was a trek, but he managed to hobble over and shut it, falling back into bed on his stomach. He looked up at Simmons, chin rested on his hands, careful not to touch his husband and send him into a deeper panic. 

“It’s me. It’s Dexter. Nobody else. Nobody’s coming. You’re okay.”

Simmons sat, frozen, breath catching in his throat and metal fingertips digging into his knee so hard the skin bruised. Grif thought it happened like this when he was startled- but that wasn’t necessarily true. It wasn’t every time, it wasn’t the same thing that set him off, it wasn’t even the exact same reaction, but he would almost always shut down, freeze up, go stiff and scared and stop breathing.

Grif sat next to him for almost ten minutes, counting his husband’s breaths, waiting until they spaced out and slowed, got deeper, relaxed. Simmons reached out, rested his hand in Grif’s; he pressed the heel of his other hand against his forehead. Lying down, he rolled onto his side.

It hurt. Grif could feel his heart thump in his throat, his knees go weak. That shouldn’t happen. Simmons shouldn’t have to go into panic mode, leap up and try to go on the attack, every time someone interrupted him in doing something or startled him. It wasn’t right- it made his stomach feel like it was going to pull out of his torso and slap itself right into the garbage disposal. He couldn’t  _ do  _ anything about it, that was the worst part. He couldn’t hop in a time machine, go back and stop Simmons from running away or stopping his dad from-

He couldn’t do anything that would stop Simmons from having been hurt. Hell, he could barely stop Simmons from hurting now. All Grif could do was pull his husband close, press his face against soft freckled skin, touch his feet against Simmons’ calves.

“C’mon, jerk. You’re gonna be alright.”

They laid there, breathing, trying to get back to sleep. Toes got cold, it got too bright, sunlight and traffic noises bled into the room through the curtains and it became impossible, but they tried.

Grif felt like they were both trying too hard, sometimes.

* * *

 

Epsilon felt, overall, like an embarrassment. Not necessarily  _ embarrassed,  _ but an embarrassment. How long had it been- a week? More? Less? Epsilon didn’t have the greatest grasp of time as it applied to anything, really. He felt like he was floating through space and time, maybe he was real, maybe not- he really ought to talk to someone about that, could be a crossed wire somewhere.

So he woke up, curled up tightly around Grif, with not even a vague idea as to why. Epsilon blinked, once, adjusting to the scenario for a moment- and then he was gone, limbs flailing, tumbling from the bed. Holy  _ shit _ , how could he have  _ done _ that, he wasn’t a touchy person, he didn’t ever enjoy anything like being pressed up against someone who was soft and warm and peacefully sleeping-

Well, not anymore, at least. Epsilon was up, out, and hiding in the bathroom before he could defend his case or make an excuse or do anything, really. He leaned up against the sink, forehead resting on the mirror- or what he assumed was a mirror, with the towel draped over it and all. He stared down at his hands, black curls dusted over his knuckles, blue veins stood out under his skin.

That wasn’t real. Those weren’t his hands. He reached behind his neck, dug his fingers into the seams around the AI chip soldered into his spine. This wasn’t his body, he was a hologram, he was a goddamn computer program made of light and code and he should be able to  _ think _ faster than this, figure everything out, be logical and react logically. If he could just get this stupid chip out, maybe one of the others could put it in, they still had their neural implant pathways open. 

Pain sparked through his skull, radiating out from the port on the back of his neck, settling into an offbeat throbbing,  _ pulsing  _ headache. When he stopped picking at the chip, drew his hand back in front of him, there was blood under his fingernails. What was he  _ doing _ ? Even if he could bribe someone to shove a broken AI chip into their fucking brain stem, would that fix it? Hell, could this be fixed? He wasn’t real. This body _ wasn’t his _ . And he, as it was, was a reassembled, reconstructed hodgepodge of an AI, fuck, he could still  _ hear the others _ . He, Epsilon, as a concept, as a personality, as a person- didn’t exist. 

That. That couldn’t be right, though. Epsilon blinked, ran a hand through his hair. No, it couldn’t be right. He stood on his toes to feel around the top of the mirror, tugging the towel down that was hiding it. 

Someone looked back at him from the mirror. There was long, curly black hair and thick eyebrows and what looked like it was trying to be a beard. Bright, bright green eyes, like Carolina’s, just like Carolina’s, pupils like pinpricks in the middle. Epsilon yanked his shirt over his head, shoved his sweatpants down onto the floor, maybe it was just the face he didn’t recognize, maybe there was something else that  _ worked. _ He rested a hand on his chest. More curls, over his chest and on his belly, and first of all, why was there a  _ bellybutton. _ That was unnecessary, this thing hadn’t been born, a bellybutton was useless! Who designed this body! 

Awful craftsmanship. Absolutely terrible. Look at it. A belly that pouched out over his underwear, hair everywhere, hips that’d make a mother of eight look petite, stretchmarks on his arms and stomach and thighs. He cupped a hand under his arm, prodded at the raised bump where they’d given him his testosterone implant. Good old Epsilon, just as everyone expected. Fat, hairy, short, and standing in somebody else’s bathroom while groping himself. 

Worst bit of it? Nothing helped. Looking at himself, or, “himself”, in the mirror didn’t help at all. It just made everyone else start talking more, voices swelling into a crescendo that pulsed along with his headache. Thoughts disorganized, scattered, not sure which were his and which were Omega’s, Theta’s, Sigma’s. He was tired and wanted to lie down on the rug and sleep, and he was wired and had to pace and run and scream.

Epsilon settled for tucking the towel back over the mirror, a small courtesy to whoever put it up, putting his pants back on, and walking out into the living room to sit on the floor by Caboose. Somehow, he was still awake, a couple hundred pages deep into the textbook he’d been given. 

Epsilon balled his shirt up behind his neck and rested it against the couch, back of his head leaning against Donut’s shoulder. They stirred, snuffled and reached out to brush a hand through Caboose’s hair. Still obviously asleep. If only Epsilon could sleep like that. Maybe he'd be able to sleep all his problems away.

* * *

 

Caboose didn’t sleep, hadn’t since he was very young, before the Spartan project. It was a little odd, not exactly fun, necessarily, but he always managed to occupy his time. Sometimes he would crawl into bed with Donut and curl up with them for a few hours, running his hands through the pouf of hair on their head and humming to himself. Other times he would let them rest, occupy himself with writing or reading or classwork. (Once he had tried to make Donut confetti pancakes. There had been a fundamental misunderstanding as to what kind of confetti.) 

Tonight was a night for reading. He eagerly slogged through a textbook that would have made someone else pull their hair out and scream, possibly while diving out of a window. So he read,chewing on a strand of hair until Epsilon stormed out of Grif and Simmons’ bedroom and immediately ducked into the bathroom. Caboose waited, suddenly a whole lot less focused on the textbook he’d been given. It seemed like a very long time, and a very short time at the same time, but Epsilon came out of the bathroom, shirtless, bags under his eyes. He sat down next to Caboose, leaned back. 

“Hello!”

“Hey, buddy. How’ve you been?”

“I have been reading! Cinnamon bun is very tired. They have not stopped sleeping.” 

That was absolutely true. Donut had laid down and almost immediately gone to sleep, no chatting necessary tonight. It left Caboose up by himself until Epsilon came out of the bedroom after two hundred and fifty seven pages into his textbook. He looked like he needed as much sleep as Donut was getting. Maybe they were stealing his sleep. Could they do that? Was Donut a sleep wizard?

Epsilon had dark circles under his eyes, like big black and purple bruises. Caboose stared at him, eyebrows furrowed. Epsilon was just looking up at the ceiling with glazed eyes, not commenting on Caboose’s statement beyond a mumble. Poor Epsilon. 

“What’re you lookin’ at?”

“I am looking at you. You look very tired, and also you are bleeding, and I do not think you were doing normal things in the bathroom, and-”   
“Yes, thank you, Caboose. Thanks. I got that.”

Caboose hummed to himself, nodding and tracing the pad of his finger over a hole in his pants. He stretched his legs out and almost knocked over the table on the middle of the room. This was a house for tiny, tiny people. Everything was too small. When he stood on his tiptoes, the top of his hair touched the ceiling. Granted, he was almost seven feet tall and his hair added a good five, six inches- but it was still  _ too small. _

His musing was interrupted by Donut, who had begun vibrating and spontaneously emitting a showtune. Caboose jumped, this time actually knocking over the table with his knee. Epsilon managed to realize that it was just Donut’s phone and extracted it from their pocket, fiddling with it to try and either turn it off or answer it. Caboose was a little busy trying to set the table back up, and plucked the phone out of Epsilon’s hands to rest it on the table when he had it properly put up again. He pressed a button on the side, and a grainy static screen projected into the air from the display. Clearly transmitting from a long ways away, three people huddled around one of the radio terminals, one in a labcoat, one with a robot arm that started at her elbow, and the other one was-

“ _ Carolina? _ ”

Epsilon bolted up, smacking Donut in the face and waking them. There was a good three minutes of confused yelling, most of which was Caboose just wanting to be included. Everyone calmed down eventually, Donut curled on the corner of the couch, Caboose bouncing his knees, and Epsilon pulling his hair out at the roots. 

“Epsilon! You, you look good. We didn’t know you’d be around, or-”

Doctor Grey cut in, elbowing Kimball and Carolina out of the way.

“Or that you’d be in such a condition! Is that a synthetic construct or cloned? Or an entirely experimental combination of the two? I’ve always wanted to experiment with that, but it’s all “oh, it’s a breach of  _ ethics,  _ Emily, it’s  _ inhumane,  _ Emily!” Well, when they need  _ their _ consciousnesses uploaded into an exact clone with an artificially extended lifespan, we’ll see who’s complaining about ethics!”

Grey was shuffled back away from the radio terminal, Kimball keeping an arm crossed over her to keep her back. She looked a little amused, at least.

“You haven’t been officially pardoned for your war crimes yet, Emily. Maybe hold off until you are.” Kimball turned her attention back to the screen, smiling and inhaling deeply. “It’s good to see you three, at least. Where are Grif and Simmons?”

“Simmons tried to shoot me in my sleep, so, they’re off doing who fuckin’ knows what now. It’s been eventful.”

Epsilon shrugged, and Caboose reached over to pull him into a hug. He didn’t like thinking about his friends being hurt. Even if it was all a big misunderstanding, and even if Caboose had probably done some of hurting in the past. (Which was a misunderstanding. Tucker had  _ definitely  _ done it.) Epsilon squirmed, protesting, which got a laugh out of Carolina. 

“Well, it wouldn’t be the same without that. It’s good to see you. All of you.”

The six of them settled into a happy conversation quickly, talking until someone paged Kimball and begged her to settle on a cabinet decision. She departed, dragging Dr. Grey and leaving Carolina with a peck on the cheek. And then it was back to chatting, laughing and swapping stories and questioning how everything came to happen like this. 

Caboose liked this. He was glad it had all turned out alright in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man i am so sorry it took so long to update this i just got majorly fuckin stuck  
> anyways kimball is president and she's got two gfs and church isnt good at dealing with things  
> my tumblr is grif-exe if you wanna contect me there!


	5. Reparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif sort-of maybe kisses Epsilon, Simmons breaks down, Caboose and Donut escape.

Grif had a routine for things. Epsilon coming to live with him had screwed up a lot of those and it had given him a pretty damn good reason to be stressed. He’d had to adjust, call his doctor in the middle of the night when he was sure he wouldn’t wake up Simmons, and there may or may not have been some binging. But he’d done a good job of keeping it under wraps, and was sure nobody was catching on to the fact that he was definitely having a massive breakdown.

And then Caboose and Donut arrived. At that point Grif had  _ almost _ gotten used to Epsilon, but those two arriving was too much. Simmons  _ almost _ caught on, gave Grif sneaky, suspicious looks, but bless that selfish asshole for not wanting to worry too much. And that gave Grif some mixed feelings, knowing that even walking (or hobbling in his case) the fine line of a nervous breakdown, Simmons still couldn’t pull his head out of his own ass for long enough to care. Oh well.

So what he ended up doing was, essentially, moving out onto the back porch- setting up a table, leaving pens and an ashtray and a metronome and a pack of cigarettes scattered across it. Grif spent more time out there than not when his old teammates were visiting, coming inside when it got dark or when he’d been gone long enough to be considered “rude”. Sometimes he worked, tapping things out with a pen and scribbling out sheet music. Sometimes he just sat outside and didn't do anything, or think about anything. A sort of happy dissociation. He could just sit and stare and not have to worry about obsessive intrusive impulses, because maybe nothing was real except for what was out there. And when he went back inside, there would be no line of memorial pictures or empty bedroom and there would be no bustling, worrisome cyborg, and it'd just be him and his sister again. 

It was one of those days, when he was sitting in his chair with his cane across his lap and a cigarette burning down to the filter in his fingers. Donut and Caboose were inside, trying to set up plans for something that Grif just didn't have the energy to do. 

“You know, for a philosophy major, you're doing pretty well.”

Epsilon poked his head out of the door, fingers drumming on the screen. Well, now Grif’s space was being invaded. Time to pack up and move to Alaska. Grif just motioned at the chair next to him, since Epsilon sincerely looked uncomfortable and Grif felt he could maybe also use a break from old friends. 

“People who do well don't have to take hush money and work two jobs, but thanks anyways.”

“It's not hush money.”

“How is it not hush money?”

Epsilon sat down hard in the other chair, tucking his legs up under himself and going quiet. 

“...Okay, maybe it's sort of hush money.”

Grif snorted, shuffling through his sheet music. Absent-minded as he was, he managed to burn a hole in one of the papers with the butt of his cigarette, nearly setting it on fire. He swore, licking his thumb and putting it out. Good job. Stuff the butt into the ashtray, tap a new one out of the pack, pat your pockets for a lighter, where was his lighter. Epsilon was watching him, eyebrows furrowed. He looked like he had a question, and so help him God, if he asked Grif why he didn’t quit smoking Grif was going to fly off the handle. 

“Could you pass me one?”

“Didn’t you get banned from drinking because we’re not sure how your freaky synth body is gonna react to those kinda things? I’m not about to get bitched at.”

“Come on, you can just say I overpowered you and stole it!”

Grif gave him a pointed look. Epsilon had the same lack of muscle and doughy look as he did, and they were about equally matched in stature. Nobody would believe that. Then again, nobody had to know. The only reason they would was if someone walked outside, and hell, nobody was going to. 

“Alright, I’m not wasting a cigarette on you until I know you won’t spit it out.”

Where  _ was _ his lighter? He leaned over, checking underneath the table, and yes, there it was, the little green one with a cupcake sticker on it. Snatching it up, tugging the ashtray towards him, he motioned for Epsilon to come closer.

“I’ll take a drag and you get the secondhand stuff. You are  _ so  _ bad at being human- have you ever seen a gritty bad-boy-meets-good-girl romcom?”

“Have  _ you _ ever seen a gritty bad-boy-meets-good-girl romcom?”

“I don’t need to answer that, I know my rights.” 

Epsilon snorted and scooted his chair closer to Grif’s. He seemed curious now. Grif felt a little bad about making fun of him for not having human experiences, but. Well, he  _ hadn’t  _ had human experiences. So Grif just lit his cigarette, motioned for Epsilon again. 

“When I breathe out, you breathe in.”

There he was, looking confused again. Grif sighed, leaning in, taking a drag from his cigarette, brushing his lips against Epsilon’s and exhaling smoke. He was very clearly startled and didn’t do the whole “inhaling” thing very well, gasping and choking and sputtering. He managed to headbutt Grif before falling out of his chair, leaning off the porch and retching into the grass. Grif shook his head, heel of his hand pressed to the knot that would be growing there because of Epsilon’s skull. 

“Such an asshole.”

* * *

 

It would be wonderful, just absolutely  _ fucking  _ peachy, if Simmons could go the suggested two-to-three weeks without having to do so much fucking maintenence on his own damn self. It was breakdowns and malfunctions every week, if he was lucky. He’d wake up and be perfectly fine, be able to get up and go to class or entertain his houseguests for a few hours, and then something inside his arm would shift and it’d lock up and he wouldn’t be able to move it. And  _ then _ he’d have to recruit Grif to help him disconnect his arm and fix the stupid thing. But no, Grif was being all moody, hiding on the porch and smoking and writing his dumb, silly, stupid romantic gay love songs that he sometimes shared with Simmons and tried to sing-

He was being  _ moody _ and Simmons didn’t want to bother him right now. Donut and Caboose were… Not to be trusted with mechanical things, especially not mechanical things that had to function as an appendage for Simmons. So Grif was out, Caboose and Donut were non-starters, which left Epsilon.

Epsilon had a semi-synthetic body, right? Plus all the memories from the director, and there were all those AIs floating around in his head. Epsilon couldn’t be any worse at this than Grif. So when Simmons’ arm locked up, he clutched at it so the weight wouldn’t topple him over, and yelled through the house for Epsilon. He poked his head in through the back door, looking a little green.

“Hey, you’re the only one around who’s semi-qualified to help. My arm’s fucked up, can- Can you help me?”

“Dude, what.”

“Oh my  _ god _ it’s like talking to a bunch of dolphins. Arm. Robot arm. Is now fucked. Need you to help.”

“Hey, shitlord, I speak English. Come on, let’s get you fixed.”

Epsilon rolled his eyes and jabbed at Simmons with an elbow as he passed by, mumbling something Simmons didn’t catch, but sounded suspiciously like a threat of being farted on in his sleep. Whatever. Sometimes he wondered if he lived with a bunch of eight year olds. He just made his way to the bedroom, sat down hard on the bed, and waved over at the drawer. 

“There’s a repair kit in the top drawer. Ignore the big black strappy thing.”

“What big black-  _ holy shit where does that fit in a human being.” _

“What did I just- Give me the fucking kit!”

Epsilon threw it over to Simmons, holding his hands up in a gesture of innocence. What an ass. Simmons tried to wriggle his way out of his shirt one-armedly, and managed to spectacularly fuck it up, wrench his working shoulder behind himself, and twist his bionic arm around. He sighed. Could one thing go right? Just one?

“Do you need help over there?”

Simmons did his best to turn his working hand to Epsilon and flip him off, still squirming and trying to get his shirt off. It was a few seconds before he felt hands tug up the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head and down his limp metal arm. Oh. Well, that was helpful. Epsilon folded the shirt and sat down behind Simmons, clearing his throat. 

“Walk me through this or something, I have no clue what’s going on.”

Simmons held back a sigh, pulling the toolkit onto his lap and tugging out a screwdriver. He passed it over his shoulder to Epsilon, explaining how to take off the outer plating and undo the latches to deattach the arm. He caught on quickly and Simmons’ arm was on the bed in a matter of minutes. Good with his hands. Simmons could appreciate that. Epsilon leaned over Simmons’ shoulder, watching as he worked and recalibrated and fixed. It wasn’t supremely helpful. He was breathing in Simmons’ ear and his chin was stubbly on Simmons’ bare shoulder and his hands were planted near Simmons’ hips, thumb pressed into the side of his thigh- 

Sometimes Simmons was so,  _ so  _ happy he didn’t get red easily anymore. Thank God for Hawaiian sun and the tan he’d finally gotten. He just tried to sit there and focus on setting all the wires back in place. He would have to call Sarge eventually, this was getting to a point where he was just not functioning well.

That was a joke. Simmons had never functioned well. High-school dropout with a dad in prison (who was probably stabbed to death at this point), married to… Well. Married to Grif. He loved the guy, but Simmons wasn’t exactly satisfied in all that many areas. Twenty-seven years old, a war hero, a cyborg, an angry, hypersexual, neurotic little brat living in a two-bedroom cottage that was twice as old as he was. Wasn’t this glamorous. 

A gear in his arm made an audible crunch as it was clicked back into place. There. All fixed. Simmons set it to the side, leaning back and sighing. 

“Thanks for the help, Church. You can, uh. Go do whatever it is you do.”

“Such a way with words. See you later, dude.”

Epsilon bumped his head against Simmons’ shoulder, hopping off the bed and walking out of the room. He shut the door behind him, thankfully. Simmons had a lot of unresolved issues to work through, and most of them were going to be worked through with the big black strappy thing.   


* * *

The week had not lasted long enough. Donut had enjoyed everything, thoroughly, managing to spend a large amount of that time relaxing, a small bit of it consoling a distressed, well, everyone, and an even smaller bit of it taming the absolutely ridiculously overgrown bushes in the yard. There had been that short-lived trip to the beach, which would have been nice if not for Simmons’ reflective robot arm, which somehow gave Epsilon a third-degree sunburn. Donut had no clue how that sequence of events went down. They just listened to Epsilon complain. There had been the beach, that midnight movie showing that Grif dressed up in a corset for, the swarm of pigeons off of the back porch that attacked Simmons, the small fire Caboose swore he didn’t set- 

Good times. But, now they were over, and it was time to head back to cold, grey little Iowa. Which was all well and good, vacations were vacations for a reason! When you lived somewhere all your life, it wasn’t nice at all. Grif had lived in Hawaii most of his life, and he definitely didn’t seem as enthusiastic about the sightseeing as Caboose and Donut did. Maybe a vacation for Grif would be something like staying at the farmhouse! Oh, that would be a great idea. Donut would have to invite him.

As of now, all Donut could do was hug Grif and Epsilon tightly, giving them both big goodbye-kisses on their cheeks. Caboose did the same, but with less kissing and more affectionate headbutting. Simmons ended up shuttling them both into the car, admonishing them for embarrassing his roommates. He packed them all into the car and headed off again, heel of his hand pressed to his temple. He looked… Tired. Everyone looked tired. If those three weren’t getting rest because of some silly sleeping arrangements, Donut was going to have a serious talk with them about sleep deprivation and the need for platonic displays of closeness. 

No time for that talk now, though. Simmons was preoccupied or distracted or  _ something  _ and didn’t give Donut even half a mumble when they attempted to converse, which was overall very frustrating. Here they were, trying to give a good friend some good advice and they were being blown off? Simmons would sit there,  _ blowing Donut off? _ How could he! This was an insult!

It was an insult Donut would have to take in stride, though. Before they could give Simmons a proper tongue-lashing, a real talking-to, they were in the parking lot and there was nothing to be done. Caboose was chirpy in the backseat, bouncing his legs and making the whole car shake, since he wanted to go home and get the plane ride over with. Simmons patted his knee, getting out of the car to help with their luggage. 

“Simmooooons, what’s got you so angsty?”

“Antsy, not- Not angsty. I’m not angsty. Angst is for bad TV shows and bad fanfiction about those shows. I’m antsy. And I'm, I'm not even antsy! Nope. Tooootally fine. Hundred percent.”

“Aw, Simmons, you- You have ants? That’s gross. You should go to the exterminator for that, that’s just. That’s just gross.”

“No, Caboose, I- I said I didn't have ants. I'm not antsy or have ants, or. Nothing. No ants.”

Donut frowned, setting their bags down to hug Simmons and rest their chin on his shoulder. So he didn't like talking about things. He was a guy! A really anxious, wispy, stringbeany guy. That was what guys were about, all. Machismo and locking their feelings away and emotional repression. Jeez, Donut was glad they weren't a guy. Masculinity? Noooo, thank you. Simmons was hesitant, and a little fidgety, but eventually hugged Donut back and sighed. They lifted him up a few inches from the ground, pecked him on the cheek, and set him back down. Caboose had wandered off, clearly not really wanting to stay around Simmons for an extended period of time. Caboose had called him an angry terminator. But... he was a part of Donut’s old team, so they felt obligated to nudge him for his phone number and other assorted contact information. They didn’t want to fall out of contact- well, again- not after everything they’d all been through together. So maybe they were a little sentimental, but hey, they liked the angry little jerks they used to slum around with on distant planets. 

So Donut and Caboose went through airport security, sat on the plane and tried not to breathe too much airport air, got on their connecting flights, took a shuttle, and ended up safe at home at eleven A.M. the next day. They crashed on the couch, Donut sprawled out on Caboose’s chest and wriggling out of his coat. Vacations, interpersonal relationships, angry people- they all took a lot out of a person. Rest was definitely needed. 

...After they rode Caboose so hard they almost blacked out. Priorities. At least they were home safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so sorry  
> at least know that church has seen something very very big, that has been inside grif's butt  
> more things to come, more tension, etc, etc  
> tumblr is still grif-exe! i am always down to talk about this  
> and i will most likely be writing a smut scene the next chapter but idk if i should change the rating to explicit yknow? let me know what you think!


	6. Regression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons leaves, Grif gets old, and Epsilon makes a bad decision.

Things settled back into a routine for a few weeks. Epsilon reclaimed his spot on the couch. A little part of him was disappointed- just a little one, it was probably Theta anyways- but that was ridiculous, since it stayed hot at night now that it was later in the year, and Epsilon wasn’t prepared to sweat all over a couple of married dudes every night. So he sprawled out, all five feet four inches of himself, on the couch, staring up at the ceiling and listening to a bunch of AI fragments use his head as a debate platform. Sometimes he got to listen to Simmons groaning for a good five minutes and then sigh in a sort of frustrated way. _Somebody_ sure wasn’t being satisfied.

It was comforting, though. There weren’t constant breakdowns or people on the edge of constant breakdowns or passive-aggression aimed at innocent bystanders. Then, Simmons’ arm shut down. It was probably no one’s fault, really, the thing was clearly cobbled together with old Warthog parts, and needed an upgrade. The synthetic organs were probably still okay, nothing to worry about there, you couldn’t exactly _build_ those from scratch like you could a limb. Epsilon knew all this, he had to read up when he got a proper body, even if he wasn’t really a cyborg.

That aside, Simmons’ arm shut down, and he had to yank it off, send it through express mail to Iowa, book a plane ticket, and berate his poor husband. Jeez. Epsilon liked Simmons, a lot, but he was a little harsh sometimes. He could do with a week away, spend some time with someone whose ass he could give a proper kissing.

...So he was a little harsh on Simmons too, occasionally. Guy had a temper! Epsilon couldn’t really be blamed for his responses. Really, all he could do was sit on the couch and shrink so as not get dragged into Grif and Simmons’ serious arguments, and put headphones on when they had really loud, angry makeup sex.

It was _kind of_ relaxing when Simmons took off. No more weird tension about broken robot parts. Just a couple guys, relaxing, playing video games, doing those live internet shows Grif said he got paid for… It was nice! Well, okay, that was a lie, it was kind of weird. There was just this tension that felt like it was going to inevitably erupt over some small thing into some kind of shitfest that normally shouldn’t happen, but-

Epsilon lost his train of thought. He was distracted by someone elbowing him in his own damn headspace. Probably Theta. Just ignore him, and maybe he won’t try and front. Can’t let your roommate see you act all weird. Eventually Epsilon let Theta co-front, sort of letting him hang out. A backseat driver type situation. Someone looking over his metaphorical shoulder while he did everything.

As it turned out, over the course of the week he ended up doing things he really didn’t want anyone to see over his metaphorical shoulder.

* * *

 

It started with Grif driving Simmons to the airport, helping him unload his bags, and pulling him into a tight, if wobbly, hug. He pressed his cheek against Simmons’ shoulder, not really registering that it surprised him. Simmons’ remaining hand hovered over his shoulders for a moment, before Grif was pulled in and his husband’s bony chin rested on the top of his head.

“What’s this about?”

“Nothing. Can’t I hug a big stupid cyborg without being questioned?”

“Nope.”

“Jackass.”

“Yeah. Have fun, Dex. Stay safe.”

“You too.”

They parted ways, Grif climbing back into the car and sitting in the airport parking lot for a good five minutes, car running, radio playing fuzzily. Grif didn’t know how to place the feeling. He felt like if he drove off, something bad would happen. And he felt like if he got out of the car to chase after Simmons, confess _something, anything_ , something bad would happen there, too. It felt like his only option was to sit there and live with the feeling of TV static in his head. That was what this was. This whole situation felt like the black and white snow they got when they turned on that old TV in Blood Gulch. It was snow.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squinted shut and glasses pushed off-kilter. This was stupid. It was stupid and he didn’t need to compare vague feelings of unease to electronic snow. He was a grown-ass man. That line of reasoning just exacerbated the feeling, for some ungodly reason.

Grif managed to chase that reason while he was driving, trying to think of any possible cause for this feeling. He pulled into the driveway, grabbed his cane from the backseat, and it hit him. He _was_ , in every sense, a grown-ass man. He was turning thirty-one in...Shit. Today. The realization was staggering, for some reason. Wasn’t this age when people had midlife crises, or was that forty? What counted as a midlife crisis. Grif had already found grey hairs in his beard and on his temples, which was probably from the whole “war hero/PTSD” thing. He didn’t _feel_ thirty-one, though, that was the only thing that made it hard for him to grasp. Whatever. Age was an illusion and time wasn't real. Everyone was just floating around on a rock in space and pretending to know what they were doing.

He put his car back in gear, drove home, and crawled into bed. It wasn't a day for doing things. Epsilon could provide for himself for a few hours, he'd be fine, Simmons was safe, Grif was going to take a personal day to celebrate what should really be a national holiday. That was settled.

“Hey, you gay piece of sh- Did you really come back home and get back into bed? You still have your shoes on. Get out of bed. We’re doing stuff.”

Apparently Epsilon had the self-sufficiency of a two year old. Great. Grif groaned and threw one of the pillows at where he figured Epsilon was. He shouldn’t have to deal with this. He was a working class man who owned a house and paid taxes. Why had he been given a robot roommate. He didn't agree to this.

“Fuck off, Church, it’s too early for this shit.”

“It’s noon.”

Grif kicked his shoes off and let them fall onto the floor, pulling his comforter over his head. He wasn’t dealing with this. It was quiet for a moment, and then Grif got the breath knocked out of him by Epsilon bodyslamming him into the mattress. He wheezed. There goes his everything. He was pretty sure a rib snapped out of place. Epsilon was having the time of his fucking life, apparently, since he didn’t feel like fucking _getting off._

“Seriously, let’s go do shit. I’ve been here months, and we haven’t managed to do anything. We went to a bar once, and that’s it. Are you guys really that boring, or do I just bring out the best in you?”

Grif would’ve answered, but he was a little busy having trouble breathing. In a valiant effort, he wedged his arm up and rolled over. Epsilon screeched, rolling and knocking his head against Grif’s and smacking down hard onto the floor. When he spoke up, he was clearly strained.

“You dick. You _dick._ You fucking killed me, Grif. I fucking jammed my elbow into my stomach and I’m fucking dead. There’s a bruise.”

“You _piledrived_ me. ...Piledrove? I was piledriven. You hit me with your body.”

“Well you just killed a protected UNSC asset. Nice going.”

“Shut up and get my wheelchair. I’ll patch your stupid military asset, protected, fuckin’. Fat ass up. Jesus.”

It took a minute, but Grif got Epsilon sat at the table with his shirt off, little first-aid baggie spread out. Epsilon was whining again, but it was good natured. There was a pretty bad bruise over a few of Epsilon’s ribs, but it wasn’t enough to merit all the bitching.

“See, scarred for life. When they do the six-month security sweep they’re gonna lock you up.”

“Remember how your girlfriend punched me in the nuts twenty times? Don’t complain about a fuckin’ bump.”

“Wow. Low blow, Grif.”

“You know what _else_ was a low blow? Getting punched in the nuts _twenty fucking times_! Dick wants kids, you know, and that’s not exactly easy to do with what you guys left me with.” Grif sighed, shook his head. “I am a man broken by war.”

“Please stop talking about your balls.”

Grif snorted, wheeling his way over to the freezer to throw an icepack at Epsilon.

“Whatever. Seriously though, have you been, like… Okay? After all that?”

He looked… Confused. Epsilon shrugged, picking at the table as Grif stood to sit in the chair next to him.

“There’s a lot that you could call “all that”. I mean, the Tex thing was, yeah it was hard, but after a while it got easier. I think she’s still around? Little. Little memories and stuff like that. I know she wouldn’t want to be brought back, though. You ever get that feeling?”

“What, the feeling that I don’t want to be brought back from the dead to be your girlfriend?”

“No, like- Like you really want something, but it’d really fuck you up, really badly, and it might fuck up other people too.”

“That seems pretty specific to you, dude.”

“Shut up.”

“No, really. Maybe you should blog about it. We can get you set up so the background’s an angsty black and white flashing thing. You can post pictures of bloody knuckles and talk about how your life’s an abyss.”

Epsilon put a palm flat against Grif’s face and shoved him. His chair teetered back on two legs and he hollered, but was thankfully righted himself again and promptly grabbed Epsilon to scrub a hand through his hair. He was screeching and laughing, face gone red, feet kicking. He tried to flatten his hair back down when he was released. It was sort of… Grif didn’t necessarily think, you know, _cute_ or anything, but the whole happy sort of dazed look fit Epsilon. It was better than brooding and moody.

His chair ended up nearly pressed against Grif’s because of the scuffle, and Epsilon poked an elbow into his ribs. He looked like he wanted to say something, or maybe he had something and lost it, because he ended up just half-leaning in. Bad idea, wasn’t the time, he probably shouldn’t, but-

Grif leaned in, pressed a kiss to the corner of Epsilon’s mouth. That was bad. It was a mistake. Bad idea, Dex, you fucked it up, complete buffoonery.

Epsilon just blinked, furrowed his eyebrows, blinked again, cleared his throat, and repeated the motion. This one was a little more centered, lips pressed against Grif’s and Epsilon’s hand resting on his knee. Unexpected, yes, but not unwelcome. There was the press of teeth against his lip, Epsilon shivering once and digging his nails into Grif’s knee. When they broke apart, Epsilon cleared his throat and stood up, still holding the icepack to his ribs.

“So, I’m just gonna go.”

“Uh, okay. Be back for dinner, I guess?”

Epsilon nodded mutely, and he was gone. Well. Good job. Grif just wobbled his way back over to his wheelchair, making his way to his bedroom to mope again. What time was it in Iowa? It’d be… The afternoon. But Simmons wasn’t even off his plane yet, wouldn’t be for hours. Grif pulled out his phone, sent a quick text telling his husband to call when he was on the ground, and then he decided just going back to bed was the best idea. Phone volume turned up high, Grif curled up tightly in bed, wrapped in blankets and doing his best to ignore both the general radiating pain that was reemerging from his knees and the debilitating anxiety culminating because of the situation.

King of dumbasses. That was his official title, now. Good job.

* * *

 

Airport security was the bane of Simmons’ existence. He'd taken to carry a photograph of himself in armor with a newspaper clipping (by one of his old squadmates- who knew one of those gals would go into interplanetary journalism?) proclaiming him as “Chorus’ cyborg savior” just to duck the cavity searches that came along after he went through a metal detector. Yes, it had beeped, _yes_ , the wand had also beeped, _yes_ it looked like he was carrying a lot of stuff strapped to his body but please, he sacrificed his internal organs because of _war_ , respect veterans. It was annoying, but he got through.

Thunderstorms over Moscow, Iowa ended up delaying his connecting flight several hours, which was less than fun. He bought some harlequin romance novel from an airport shop for a dollar and curled in on himself in a lumpy airport chair, headphones in his ears as he tried to ignore absolutely everything. His phone chirped halfway through the last chapter, Grif’s name popping up on the screen. Unbelievable. Even Simmons wasn’t this- Well, no, he was this worrisome. He propped his phone up on his lap, fiddling with it to pull a holoscreen up, waiting for Grif to answer the damn call.

“Pick up, dumbass.”

A beep, and the screen popped up, dark and grainy. Grif squinted into his phone, glasses off and blankets wrapped around his head.

“Are you still in bed? It’s- I don’t know what time it is, but it’s absolutely too late to be in bed.”

“...’s a bad day.”

“I think your pain meds are under the sink?”

“Not gonna get up. How’s the flight?”

“Lazy ass. I’m waiting on my connecting, right now. Did you know Sarge lives in Moscow? I mean, Moscow, Iowa. But it's still, kinda. Funny, you know.”

“That s’pposed to mean something to me?”

“It’s a city in Russia. Y’know, the anti-Sarge? Against absolutely every one of his beliefs?”

Grif rubbed his eyes, looking like he was thinking it over, before he got the joke. The laugh was wheezy and subdued, but- well, damn it if it didn’t make Simmons’ heart skip. Grif didn’t smile much, laughed even less, but every time he did it made Simmons absolutely giddy.

“Okay, so Sarge is secretly a communist. Got it. Seriously, though, how’re you doing?”

“Dex, I’m fine? Come on, now you’ve got me worried. I’m fine with flying, it’s _your_ hangup. Did you talk about the whole projection thing you do with your psychiatrist?”

That got an actual laugh, Grif’s eyes crinkled up at the corners, and- oh, jeez, those were crow’s feet. Jeez. The man had wrinkles. Well, there was three-ish years between them, Grif had always been under a lot of stress and-

Oh, stupid Simmons. Stupid, stupid Simmons. He smacked his forehead with the palm of his remaining hand, glaring at the holographic projection in front of him.

“I forgot!”

“You… Forgot. Uh, alright, Dick. I’ll bite. What’d you forget?”

“Your birthday, you ass! I- Oh, come on, I _left town_ , and we didn’t even do anything, I’ll be gone for a week-”

“Dick, come on, we don’t ever do anything for birthdays. For yours, we just marathoned Battlestar Galactica and you sat on my face for an hour!”

“...It was still nice, I’d like to do something-”

“When you get back. That way you won’t be armless and pissy. Okay?”

Simmons had a response on the tip of his tongue when a perky attendant came over the intercom, announcing that flight 57 to Des Moines was now boarding. He held his hand up to the projection, gathering up his luggage and holding his phone in front of him.

“Fine. Hey, Dexter?”

“Uh, yeah, Richard?

“I gotta go, but I love you. Y’know that, right?”

Grif shifted, visibly. He set his phone down, bundled himself farther down into his blankets, and nodded. If the image wasn’t so grainy, Simmons knew he’d be able to see his cheeks go dark.

“I know that. Love you too, dummy. Stay safe and don’t kiss up to Sarge too much.”

Simmons glanced around, just to make sure he wasn’t being stared at, before sticking his tongue out at the projection and hanging up. This wasn’t so bad. This was going to be fine. He’d get his arm fixed up, he’d come back home and do some celebration, there was really, just absolutely nothing to be worried about.

He settled into his seat on the plane. Nothing to be worried about. Nothing at all.

* * *

 

Epsilon was the one in charge when it came to this headspace. Everyone else was just rehashed old memories, and he would die before he let himself be shamed by old memories. It was mostly Theta, good old Theta, embodiment of trust, whatever, reminding him that this was a really, _really_ bad idea. Delta would just shrug, expressions and sentiment lost behind the helmet he never visualized himself without. He was not about to be shamed by memories!

So he just sprawled out on the couch, limbs draped about as he stared up at the ceiling and fought with the dumb folks in his dumb head. Little sparks radiated out from the neural implant in the back of his neck, making him shudder and knead the base of his skull. Real mature, Theta. He was a grown-ass man. Who had just kind of made out with a married guy. So he had a little lapse in judgement. Wouldn’t happen again.

It wouldn’t happen again, right? Theta prodded him about it, worried and upset and insisting that it wouldn’t.

There was no way it was going to happen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELP  
> next chapter has some capital-S Stuff  
> dont know how long the next one will take because im writing some super gross smut but i have a good plan for the next one so hopefully it wont be too long a wait  
> anyways! tumblr is still grif-exe and i'm always down to talk about hcs and development but not many spoilers unless i really like you  
> i can tell you that theres likely gonna be some softcore smut in the next chapter because. well. i dont wanna be foreboding but grif's definitely one bastard orphan in need of a break


	7. Repairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons gets fixed, Grif gets drunk, Sarge sees things he never wanted to.

Sarge owned a silver pickup truck, and it was his pride and joy. It was at least ten years older than he was, but still ran like a dream and looked damn near brand new. Well, brand new except for the few trinkets he’d added in his time with it. A pine tree shaped air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror, a bumper sticker supporting his second-amendment rights on the back windshield, and a newspaper clipping of the ex-Red and Blue soldiers of Project Freelancer stuck over a broken air-conditioning vent, that sort of thing. It was the little things that made this truck his.

The over-enthusiastic, one-armed bouncing cyborg in his passenger seat was somewhere in the same vein as the picture, really. A little snapshot back from Sarge’s old days in the military. Sure, that was a couple years past, now, and things had changed, but that was the same Simmons. Tanner, blonder, maybe a little less scrawny, but still the simpering sycophant Sarge had grown to tolerate. 

“So, uh, sir, I really just wanted to thank you for letting me stay for the week, and fixing my arm, you know, with you having designed it and building so many non-standard modifications, I couldn’t really go and get it fixed even at a specialty place, so it’s really an honor-!”

“Simmons, what have I told you about the sirs! I’m not your commanding officer. Call me by my name!”

“Uh, yes, s- Sarge. That’s not actually your name, though. Right?”

Sarge just gave Simmons a knowing look, eyebrows raised. It wasn't, but he would be cold and dead in his grave before he told anyone his name. Just as a protective measure, or so he liked to think. Maybe he'd gotten tied up in some shady dealings before the war. Had to leave it up to speculation. 

Simmons’ phone vibrated in his pocket, beeping out the first bars of a song before he fumbled and answered it. He adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat. 

“Hello? God damn- Yes, Dex, I landed fine. Did something go wrong back there? Well, what're you calling for! You know I'm fine, it's just silly for you to- You missed- Oh, shut up!”

Sarge watched Simmons chatter out of the corner of his eye. He looked happy, content, face flushed and a grin plastered across his face. Not even making an attempt to be annoyed by Grif’s antics anymore, shame on him. Although, Sarge supposed it was only fair to let everyone relax and stop worrying about team politics and cycles of hatred, all that. He still held a little grudge against Grif, for all the insubordination, but, well. Couldn't blame Simmons for wanting to be happy. 

“That Grif on the phone?”

Simmons jumped, whipping his head around as he was startled. He cleared his throat, stammered, while Grif kept talking on the other line. 

“Yeah! We’re, uh, we were assigned to live together and all that, you know how it is, Sarge, can't put military assets out among the- Don't worry! We’re still mortal enemies! Can't stand the man. Such. Such hatred. Vitriol.”

Grif’s voice on the line went silent for a moment, then, quietly, through the speaker-

“You fucking sold me out, you little son of a bitch.”

Sarge laughed, slapping a hand on the side of the steering wheel. He may be old, but he wasn't blind yet. Simmons was a bad liar, and Grif was a hopeless lovestruck fool, they'd both been like that forever. Nothing new here. 

“Simmons, that's no way to treat a romantic partner! Even if they are… Well, Grif. ‘Sides, you two were a worse secret than Donut’s stash of wrestling mags.”

He took a hand off the wheel to make airquotes around the word “wrestling”. Simmons just made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, setting his feet up on the dashboard of the truck and hiding the rest of his conversation behind his hand. Sarge turned on the radio, letting the boy have a little privacy. Their little chat drug on, would've lasted for the two hours it took to drive back to Sarge’s farmhouse if Simmons’ phone hasn't beeped about having a low battery. Sarge cleared his throat when they were finished. 

“You sound happy enough.”

“Oh, sure! We fight and all, but. Well, who doesn't? I just thought we'd done a better job of keeping it, well, not out in the open, at least.”

“Son, everyone knew. And not just because of your displays of affection. For your neighbor’s sake, I hope you've learned to keep your voice down.”

Simmons stammered. Maybe Sarge was laying it on a little thick, but it wasn't  _ untrue _ . It lapsed into somewhat of an uncomfortable silence until they pulled into Sarge’s driveway. Then Simmons started bouncing his leg against the floor of Sarge’s truck, looking altogether like an excitable puppy on a car ride. 

It took all of five minutes to get everything and everyone settled inside, Simmons’ duffel bag settled on a sagging chair and Lopez puttering about and grumbling to himself. Simmons was clearly in awe of Sarge’s immaculate and perfectly up to code home, since he stood around, taking it all in, without even greeting Lopez. Honestly, he was being a little rude! Here Sarge was, offering hospitality for the night, and Simmons couldn't even be bothered to comment on his lovely home. Ridiculous. 

“Alright, down to business, Simmons! We’ll get your physical done, get your arm reattached, and you'll be back home to your, er- Grif before you know it.”

“Sir, I was more under the impression that we'd be catching up, a little. Staying a couple more days or a week, at least.”

Sarge clapped Simmons on the shoulder before steering him out of the kitchen and off towards his workshop, which really amounted to no more than a basement. It was a basement with all his robotics equipment though, so that made it a workshop. 

“Nonsense! Can't have you stayin’ away from Grif for too long. Dirtbag might blow up your house or start cheatin’ on you with a spry young gal.”

“I- He wouldn't do that! It's his house, and, besides, he's not, straight, he wouldn't- You don't think he'd cheat?”

Another pat on the shoulder. 

“Aw, you're just naive, son. I'll have you all learned up in the ways of men like him while we get through your physical.”

* * *

 

“Okay, Church. I got two… Mostly full bottles of whiskey and nobody to stop me. We are getting shitfaced.”

Epsilon looked up from his phone, eyebrows raised. 

“What happened to not doing that until we figured out- Y’know what, I actually don't care, I just don't want to get chewed out.”

“Dick isn't here and he's like, eighty-five percent of my impulse control. Also I feel like shit, so I'm gonna hit rock bottom before I manage to drag myself back up.”

“That's pleasant.”

Grif motioned towards the kitchen table, insistent. He had dark circles under his eyes, hair greasy and loose over his shoulders. Overall, he looked about as bad as he said he felt. But hey, if he was offering alcohol, Epsilon was taking it. So he hauled his ass up to walk to the table, patting Grif on the shoulder as he passed, and plopping down. 

It took all of three swigs from one of the bottles to get Epsilon buzzed, and buzzing as well. His neural implants felt like a live wire, and the other fragments were whispering and humming and scheming and jostling to the front until it felt like there were ten people bustled around and looking over his shoulders. And to be fair, they were watching an absolute shitshow. To start with, Grif had pushed aside the glass sitting out for him and had instead chugged half a bottle, belching loudly when he was done. Epsilon had just watched, seeing Grif repeat the drinking twice before he pushed the now empty bottle away. They had chatted for a bit while Grif slowly got less and less coherent, digging his nails into the skin of his donated arm until there were raw red lines up to his elbow. 

“Grif, man, you’re gonna get fucked up.”

Grif pointed at Epsilon with one fat finger, lowering his shoulders and looking like he was ready to sink into the floor. 

“You- You know what? Yes. I am. I am just- I’m so glad I got you around, cause it's been. It's been a mess.”

Epsilon reached across the table to pat Grif’s cheek, clumsily brushing over three days of scruff. 

“You're fine, stupid. You're fine.”

“I'm serious, it's been fucked, it's fucked, man. Dick- Dick’s gone, n’ I've been thinking, I'm thinking it's a good thing.”

Well, that was a little confusing. Epsilon drew his chair closer to the table, eyebrows furrowed, Sigma’s and Theta’s voices rising up above the rest. 

“Cause, like- I didn't join the army, y’know? I didn't want to be there, n’ Sarge was a fucking asshole, and Simmons was a suckup, but he was just fuckin’ scared cause he was like, nineteen or twenty or something, and he got super fucked up as a kid. But he was just, so fuckin’ messed up and I could relate ‘cause I thought he was tryin’-”

Grif interrupted himself, hiccuping and trying to grab the empty bottle near him. Epsilon nudged it away from his reach. 

“Asshole. I thought he was trying to make the best outta. Outta a bad situation. But no, he dropped outta high school to join the army, fucker got all high off his CO’s piss an’ thought he was so great, started shooting at me to get on Sarge’s good side. And I just, I just let him, man? I just let him? ‘Cause I felt sorry, and I knew I'd be leaving so I just tried to make nice while we were there.”

Epsilon listened intently, goal of getting drunk and fighting the power forgotten. Hey, if you're going to live with someone, the least you could do was listen to their problems. Grif just kept mumbling, palm pressed to his eyes. 

“And it was really, kinda nice, cause it was like. Casual sex, at first, but he had such a high fuckin’ drive and I didn't and I thought he was just usin’ me and I got anxious n’ couldn't keep up. He got pissy and shit and I just. I had to suck it up but it was  _ good  _ when we worked through it. But, he's like this. He's this big reminder of the worst- worst days of my life. My sister fucking  _ died,  _ man. I raised her and she's dead and every time I look at him, it's like- it's like having to go through all those bad days again. Gettin’ shot an’ run over and beat up and fucked over-”

Epsilon had moved his chair over onto the other side of the table, leaning in to listen to Grif’s muttering. He'd trail off and rise in pitch erratically, like this was something he had to get off his chest even if nobody could understand it. Maybe the whole point of getting drunk together was to do this, get shitfaced and have Grif spill all the stuff he couldn't say sober. Wouldn't be the first time that had happened to somebody. 

“It's- it's like, he was important during the war, to me, and I guess now that we’re not fighting anymore, it's like I should just… Not have married him, like that was a stupid decision to keep someone around that makes me miserable, n’ reminds me of all that shit. I coulda found somebody else, right? I'm. I'm okay, I don't-”

Grif’s voice cracked, and he then wasn't speaking English, muttering on and rambling and voice pitching up into something Delta remarked was most statistically likely to be Hawaiian Creole,  _ but _ had a lower chance of being a pure Hawaiian dialect, and had an even lower but statistically still probable chance, based on his heritage and location, of being Japanese-

Yeah, shut up, Delta. Epsilon looped an arm around Grif’s chest and dragged him up into a standing position, which didn't work well when Grif’s legs flopped and went boneless. Epsilon just let him fall to the ground, and then twisted his hands in Grif’s shirt to drag him up onto the couch. And lift and  _ shove  _ and good job, Epsilon, you got a drunk guy onto the couch. That's an achievement. Let’s see. Simmons was the kind of person who kept a bag full of plastic bags under the sink, so Epsilon went out on a limb and proceed to look. Bingo. He threw a ball of plastic bags at Grif for him to puke in if it came to that, then rifled through the fridge to set a bottle of water on the floor next to him. There. That was fine. 

Epsilon left the house, standing on the back porch and staring out at the yard. He'd have to call the UNSC at some point, request a transfer. He'd even take living on Chorus with the first, second, and third ladies at this point. This was just ridiculous.

* * *

 

Simmons only ended up staying at Sarge’s for two nights. On the first, he was too hopped up on painkillers from having his cybernetics torn out and replaced to even know his middle name. Lopez could have come in and started reciting Shakespeare and Simmons wouldn't have noticed. The second night was a little more painless, at least. His cybernetics were reattached with few hitches, and he was more than happy at the fact that he could reach his arm up more than six inches without it locking up on him. 

It was cause enough to celebrate, for him. He'd palmed over the sore edges of his robot bits, fingertips pressed into bruises and old scars, and- Well, he's a healthy young man and there was the adrenaline or whatever hormones from getting through all his operations, maybe he's a little bit of a masochist, sue him! He ended up with one hand down his sweatpants and the other dug into the seams of the metal plate over his collarbone. He was biting down on his lip, hips grinding up against his hand, legs twitching-

And Sarge was bursting into the room, toolkit in hand. He was hollering about cardiac arrest, hollering for Lopez to get in here-

It was a mess. Simmons couldn’t look Sarge in the eye the next morning, and he’d managed to squeak out a request to stay until Donut could drive down and pick him up. Sarge had just grunted into his coffee, staring down at his breakfast and stretching out his legs under the table. While the general awkwardness of the morning made it hard to do, well, anything, Simmons did manage to get a good look at Sarge out of his armor. In boxers, it was clear that the ex-Helljumper hadn’t gone through the war unscathed, since, well, he was missing his left leg up to his hip, and the right to his knee. Knowing Sarge had to deal with his own prosthetics helped Simmons breathe easier, at least. Beyond that, Sarge looked, to put it nicely, like shit. His hair had gone white, and he looked thin compared to when he was on Chorus. His hands shook, he leaned on walls and against Lopez while he walked-

He tried not to dwell on it too much when Donut came by. Simmons’ goodbye to Sarge was still awkward, since his ex-CO had tried to settle for a handshake. That wasn’t going to happen on Simmons’ watch, and Sarge was bustled up into a careful hug before Simmons squawked out a terrified “See ya, sir!” and ran off to hide his shame in Donut’s energy-efficient car. Simmons couldn’t bring himself to converse with Donut, and just rested his head on his bag while he panicked. 

“Oh, I’m so glad you could come over! It’s a shame Grif and Epsilon couldn’t come, but I bet you wanted some free time. You look all bruised up, what happened to your robot parts? Looks like you took a pounding! Was it Lopez? Man, I remember one time back on Chorus-”

“Yeah, Donut? I don’t need to know that.”

“He’s super intense to train with! When we were with the Feds, Sarge wanted us to train, and it was either we did it with Wash or with him, and, well, Wash was just broken up, you could tell.”

“Oh, you were- You were talking about training. Why do you still do the whole innuendo thing, everyone knows-”

“Also, one time I asked him if he came fully equipped, and I ended up bent over one of the radio station consoles. Now, I don’t know how open you and Grif’s relationship is…”

“Why. Why are you like this, Donut.”

“I’m just saying!”

Simmons groaned, cupping his hands over his ears. He didn’t want to hear this. He did his best to tune out Donut’s chattering for the rest of the trip, fishing in his backpack for headphones. His phone beeped in his pocket. A text from Grif, reading what Simmons assumed was “I’m hungover, what’s a cure, and where’s my meds.”

Simmons responded, telling him the locations of both a slab of frozen bacon he’d ferreted away and the stash of medication that hadn’t ever changed, and if Grif stuck to one place to take his meds maybe he wouldn’t have to  _ ask  _ all the damn time. Simmons got a picture in response, Grif flopped on the couch with his hair fanned out over the arm, face scrunched up. That got a little laugh. He looked a lot like a very scruffy, angry baby, and Simmons was sure to tell him so. 

A voice message, this time. Simmons’ podcast was interrupted by Grif’s voice, scratchy and grumbling. 

“Fucker. Come home soon.”

Simmons rolled his eyes, recording his own message right back. 

“I will. Don’t cause too much trouble.”

* * *

 

Grif was going to fix this. He just needed to think. Maybe, maybe, he should talk to Simmons about this.

Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sTOP FUCKING UP AND RESOLVE THINGS  
> spoiler. they continue to fuck up and not resolve things.   
> tumblr is still grif-exe, please talk 2 me about this im so lonely and dont have anything else to say in these ntoes


	8. Reimplantation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epsilon ascends the physical plane, Grif takes a tumble, Simmons sees an angel, and Sarge reminisces.

Epsilon woke up outside on the porch, without realizing that he’d fallen asleep. His back was stiff, and his neural implants burned and made his brain feel like it was trying to set his skull on fire to escape. Speaking of fire, Sigma wouldn’t  _ shut the fuck up _ , and it was getting on Epsilon’s last nerve. 

He just closed his eyes, covering them with his forearm and trying to make everyone else melt into background noise. This would be so much easier if he could compartmentalize, split them off, get them out of his head because as much as he liked having someone to talk to, he didn’t want them to be there  _ constantly.  _ He toyed with the idea of confronting Grif, getting him to pry out his chip- Weren’t there those little portable projection pads that you could stick on things? Epsilon had seen those somewhere in his bag, given to him by a pitying UNSC employee who figured he’d want to escape this stupid meat prison eventually. 

Of course, if he wanted to find those, he’d have to go back inside, which required getting up, moving, and he was not ready for that at all. He hadn’t even drunk all that much, barely anything, in fact! It was ridiculous. As soon as he got the motivation, he’d get right up, march inside, and pester Grif until he got up to implant Epsilon. 

Right after he laid down on the floor for a long time. Thankfully, he managed to tune out the other fragments, focused on the other things going on around him. It was bright out, hot out, the overgrown jasmine bushes making the air sickly-sweet. Delta mused that it was probably close to noon, and Epsilon groused back at him to hush up. He managed to relax a little bit, breathing even and almost floating off back to sleep.

Then, caterwauling from inside. Epsilon bolted up, immediately assuming that Grif was being murdered or at least dying, only to stumble and fall right back on his ass. He was not graceful, and he was stiff as a board from sleeping on a porch all night. Okay. Trying this again. He got up, made it to the door-

And found that it was locked. Dammit. If Grif had managed to lock the back door, there was no way the front door wasn’t locked as well. Okay. Step back and think. Epsilon knew there was a window in the bathroom, though it was a little high off the ground-

Lawnchair. He snatched up the chair and made his way to the side of the house, propping it up in the weeds and standing on it. He could almost peer into the opened window, so he jammed his toes into the slats of the lawnchair, jumped to pull it forward, and stood on his tiptoes to peer in. The screeching was earsplitting this close, but Epsilon was quick to realize that no, Grif was not being killed. He was just awful at singing. And naked. Very naked and definitely mid-shower. Who got rid of the real Grif- this guy was up before three P.M. and showering willingly! Preposterous. Epsilon wormed his arm through the window, poked Grif right on the top of the head.

“I have a couple of questions.”

Grif  _ screamed _ , pitching backward and tangling himself in the shower curtain as he fell onto the floor of the bathroom. Whoops. Maybe Epsilon should’ve knocked first. Now, his roommate was sprawled out, soapy, wet, unhappy, and probably on the verge of a heart attack. 

“What the  _ fuck _ , Church?”

“I slept on the back porch last night and in your drunken stupor you locked me out. Why do you have a mullet?”

“That’s your first question? That’s it?”

“Well, no, I’m also wondering how you’re not hungover, but now that I’ve seen you with your hair down I’m really concerned that Simmons has some kind of bad haircut fetish.”

Grif gave Epsilon a pointed look, untangling his legs from the shower curtain. Clearly he had absolutely no shame whatsoever, so Epsilon just shifted his viewpoint a little so he wasn’t staring at dick. There was clattering as Grif hoisted himself up and leaned heavily on the wall, reaching up to smack Epsilon’s forehead through the window.

“Fuck you. I was having a good day and now you’ve gone and fucked me up again. And it’s not a mullet, I just have- It’s really long hair. I was in the middle of  _ washing it _ when you decided to satisfy your gross voyeuristic impulses.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. Redneck.”

“I’m  _ Japanese! _ ”

“Redneck. So when you’re done being severely out of character by bathing, d’you think you could implant me?”

Grif squinted up at Epsilon through the soap in his eyes. Jeez, it wasn’t like Epsilon was asking for anything- Well, it was a little weird. Given Grif’s experiences with Omega when Epsilon had fractured himself, it made sense. He was good with an AI. Delta proposed that it was because he was used to impulsive and intrusive thoughts, leading him to tune it out and function better than most others. Epsilon proposed that Delta shut his big green mouth.

“Yeah, sure. I’m gonna make lunch first, though. You get it, I’m having a good day so I’m gonna capitalize on this. Can you maybe not watch me shower, now? I mean, I’ll let you in when I’m done, but can you give me, like, five minutes?”

Epsilon shrugged. 

“I dunno. I think my legs locked up.”

“You disgusting pervert.”

* * *

 

Grif was having a good day. Sure, he’d woken up at four A.M and vomited into the sink for two hours, but after that and after falling asleep for another six hours, he actually felt pretty damn good. The pain in his knees and back had settled into a dull throb, much better than most days, and once he finished off the absolutely ridiculous amount of pills he had to take daily, he actually felt _ good _ . He wasn't worried about going into the kitchen and seeing something sharp and getting that persistent urge to stab something- Sure, he still flicked the shower on and off a few times, same with his razor and the lights in the bathroom, but it was a damn good day. He shaved, put on clean boxers, brushed his teeth, and combed out his hair. It was a  _ good day.  _

And he was going to keep it that way, come hell or high water. After letting Epsilon in through the back door- (Really, drunk Grif? Locking your roommate outside?) he puttered about, digging through his pantry and fridge for something to cook. Fresh fruit, that was good, what else- this was going to be the best damn thing Epsilon ever put in his mouth, bar none. 

He ended up handing off a block of tofu and an entire pineapple for Epsilon to cut, still not trusting himself with a knife. Epsilon got through prepwork with few screw ups, and within ten minutes they each had a plate piled full of sautéed goodness. Grif liked comfort food, sue him. Epsilon looked like he was about to cream his pants, and then maybe sit down and cry. It was flattering, to say the least. They ate in silence, Grif’s poor robot roommate all but licking his plate clean. 

“Okay, you are a mystery wrapped in an enigma. Seriously, I have so much I want to know and the first is what the fuck did you just serve me, and can I marry it?”

“Mom used to make it, and no, you can’t marry it. Sicko.”

Epsilon stuck his tongue out at Grif, kicking his feet under the table. Grif felt a little better knowing that someone else was as short as he was, and had trouble reaching the floor when they sat down. It felt like some kind of solidarity amongst the vertically-abbreviated. Grif tapped his fork against his plate, and upon realizing it made a lovely noise, continued. 

“Okay, I still have questions. Why the long hair, and how did you avoid getting hungover?”

“Aesthetics and luck, respectively. You're a curious little bastard today.”

Epsilon shrugged, still swinging his legs under the table. He looked a little embarrassed now, having been called out on it. Or embarrassed for whatever reason, really. What was up with this little dude today?

“Can you implant me now?”

Oh. That was what was up with this little dude. Grif pushed his chair out, gathering up the dishes to drop them into the sink. Did he want to do that? He said he'd help Epsilon, and if this was how he had to do it, so be it. 

It wasn't as hard as Grif would've thought. Epsilon had sprung up when Grif agreed, arms slung up around his neck in a hug, and upon realizing that he'd done it, pulling back and just making it really weird for everyone. He'd dug through his luggage- he hadn’t unpacked yet? He'd been here so long, no one was going to kick him out or anything. Poor Epsilon. He'd produced a projection pad, making Grif sit down on the floor while he swabbed out his neural implants and attached the flimsy wires and sticky pad to Grif. It was convoluted, and Epsilon’s explanation didn't help any. Grif was just happy when it was over, and they quickly swapped places so Grif could pry out the chip. It was worryingly difficult, but pulling it out once and replacing it didn't cause any ill effects, so at that point it was deemed perfectly safe. 

Grif pulled the chip out of Epsilon, delicately setting it on the arm of the couch, and covered the now-empty body sitting on the floor in a blanket. It was a little creepy. Okay. Deep breath, lean forward, close your eyes, and-

It was a loud crescendo of voices all at once, enough to make Grif cover his ears and drop his head between his knees. One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand, it was too much and he couldn't keep it together, he couldn't do it. One one thousand two one thousand three one thousand- The voices rose again, swelling into a roar before bursting into silence. It was quiet, so quiet, so peacefully quiet, no thoughts, nothing. Grif uncovered his ears, sitting up and blinking. He thought he'd gone deaf for a moment, but he readjusted, listened to the noises outside fade back into recognition. He stared down at his hands. Mismatched, pink scars dusted over the left knuckles, a little black band circling the right wrist-

A little shock, right to the neurons, then a flash of silvery-blue. Epsilon materialized in front of him, apparently choosing not to project in his armor, and instead appearing exactly like his synthetic body. He threw his little projection-arms out, little projection-face stretched in a grin. 

“Guess who’s back! Oh, man, Grif. This is the greatest thing, you guys are really missing out. It's so- I dunno! It's so loosey-goosey.”

“Loosey-goosey? What are you, five?”

“Do you want the technical answer because I’m either in my fifties or ten.”

“Neither of those answers make me feel any better about housing you. Do you guys ever shut up?”

Epsilon shrugged, and the headache threatening Grif grew worse. He hadn't noticed it until he'd plugged Epsilon in, but it was not going to be ignored now. The hologram in front of him seemed to shimmer, somehow projecting an aura of concern despite being a tiny transparent man. The little whispers in the back of Grif’s head dulled a bit, going softer. 

“Alright, buddy. You’re done. Time to sleep.”

The blue hologram in front of him dissipated, and Grif gave him only a token amount of grumbling before sprawling out on the couch and burying his face in his arms. It took him just a few moments before he fell asleep, and he swore he heard someone humming before he did.

* * *

 

Simmons’ time with his ex-teammate and their partner was a real trip, to say the least. He spent half of it absolutely bowled over by some illness, probably because of the major surgery he just went through. Donut and Caboose were nothing less than excellent, though, helping him through all the vomiting and the shivers and the one, singular absolute meltdown he had that was absolutely brought on by sickness and not by the fact that he was being doted on by people and he didn’t deserve that. Disease made you loopy. All there was to it. He woke up more often than not to Caboose’s fat calico cat sprawled out on his belly, paws kneading his chest. It made him a little bit homesick. No reason for that. 

Donut was a gracious host, much better than Simmons was. Donut took him out to shops, prodded him to get souvenirs for Epsilon and Grif, cooked dinner, gave him a hug and the wi-fi password when they skipped out to go to work in the evening- Donut was so  _ nice _ . Simmons didn’t know how to handle it, so he just ended up getting a little bit embarrassed and flustered. They’d styled his hair up, too, complaining about the overgrown blonde pouf that Simmons called a hairdo. It was just  _ hair _ , not a hairdo, but he’d plopped down and let them snip away at it and fluff it up with product, and, well. Simmons looked a lot nicer. 

Caboose was… Caboose. He’d picked Simmons up when he got out of the car, leaving Simmons’ feet dangling seven inches off the ground. And then Caboose was just… Gone. He was always either off in class, or volunteering, or sticking close to Donut. Simmons had caught him early one morning, in the kitchen when he was hunting for caffeine. The ex-Spartan was sitting crosslegged on the counter, textbook balanced on his knee, plate of what looked to be an entire loaf of toast sitting next to him, a halo around the fluffy brown afro framing his face. He was backlit by the window behind him, and he looked… Ridiculous. He was adorable. Eight feet tall and scary-strong, but he was content and happy. 

He was also shirtless, wearing sweatpants, and from the very uncomfortable look of it, no underwear. Well, time to stop looking at Caboose forever. Simmons just busied himself with searching for coffee. No need to stare. 

“Hello, Simmons! Are you lost? Sometimes I get lost, but Cinnamon Bun tells me to retrace my steps. But not with a pencil. That’s the wrong kind of tracing.”

Simmons nearly jumped out of his skin.

“No! I’m not lost! Just looking for coffee. Just. Coffee. That you drink. Coffee.”

Okay. Just look down at the countertop. Don’t turn around. Caboose will get the hint and find it for-

Caboose was right behind him. He opened up the cabinet Simmons was hiding by, reaching up to grab something off the top shelf. Keep it together. His arm had retracted, it was safe to turn around. Or not, since Simmons ended up with a faceful of soft, fuzzy, brown pectoral in his face. This was hell. This was Dick Simmons’ personal hell. This was his punishment for doing this to Grif so often. 

“Hey, uh. Caboose.”

“Hello!”

“Hi. D’you mind backing up, two, three, many. Many feet. There’s a bubble, that I need to be in. Your boob is encroaching my bubble.”

Caboose looked down at Simmons, a little confused, before Simmons touched one finger to the center of his chest and gently pushed him back enough to escape. Oh, he was in trouble. He was in a lot of trouble. This was the end.

* * *

 

Seeing his old teammate was hard. Sarge had kept it together when Simmons left, but he’d had to drive miles down the road, pull off the shoulder once the former kissass was most definitely hundreds of miles away. He’d dropped his head against the steering wheel, eyes closed. Oh, it was hard. It was hard and he was lying to himself, he was lying to his team, he was lying to people he considered his  _ family.  _ But he just couldn’t do it, couldn’t adapt to his team having changed. They were scattered and paired off by the UNSC, they were  _ developing _ .

It was different. It was hard. Simmons wasn’t constantly looking for his approval, was relaxed, happy, even. It was because of Grif, for some ungodly reason. Now, Sarge wasn’t blind, never had been. But… They’d never gotten along. Ever. Never made each other happy, it was all Grif pining and Simmons being shrieky. It wasn’t right. It didn’t fit. Sarge had never liked Grif. Him screwing with the team dynamic certainly wasn’t going to endear himself to Sarge now.

He got home to Lopez watching some action movie, heavy metal feet propped up on the couch. Lopez hadn’t changed all that much. He could pick between speaking English or Spanish, now, but he still mostly spoke Spanish. It was all fine, though. Sarge liked that. He didn’t want any change in the routine.

Sitting down next to Lopez, he closed his eyes. He missed the canyon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> em keeps yelling at me for this but i'm not even sorry for what's coming  
> tumblr is still grif-exe! pls pls pls comment or review if you liked it! i get so motivated when yall do ur all so sweet n i love you all thank u  
> i'm gonna draw the whole simmons getting boobed thing don't worry it's just . it's good.


	9. Relaxed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epsilon dreams, Donut formulates a plan, and Grif and Simmons consider some things.

The first night Epsilon slept while in his body again, he dreamed of snow. As it turned out, nobody he'd implanted in and stolen memories from had very good experiences when it came to snow. 

It started with a cold study, red hair in pigtails and a man reading a letter, over and over. The windows were frozen over, little fractals blooming over glass. The words  _ Dad, when’s she coming back  _ on the tip of his tongue. She's not. She never came back. A hand, small, soft, still so young too young to go through this reached out and tried, tried so hard for so many years to earn back what was taken from her. She, he, they both took a step synchronously forward only to crunch against snow. 

Look down. Ice, sleet, melted, grey snow. A busted lip, swollen bruise over an eye. Threadbare army clothing that didn't keep the chill out but he couldn't get new ones yet not yet. Look down. Always look down and keep walking. Blood dripped from the tear in his lip, staining the snow behind him as he walked. Make that better, fix it up as best you can before you get back to your bunk. Pick up the snow pack it against your lip. It hurts but it'll be numb soon just keep walking, David. Keep walking, problem child. Keep walking and look down and maybe this time you'll be able to convince yourself that the fight was worth it. Maybe this time someone would listen, a CO would stop a useless troop assignment that would lead to death and something whistles overhead and there's grey flakes in the air. 

There’s grey flakes in the air and he's falling. Feet yanked from under him he's forced to look up, sees a soldier discarding his weapon and bolting towards him, diving, reaching, gripping his hand. The light slices through the opaque visor like a knife, expression behind it terrified brown eyes wide  _ hang on I’ve got you hang on NO DON’T  _ and he's falling, he's falling forever and air whips past him and he's screaming goodbye to someone but it's too late, he's falling.

He's falling through darkness and a void and he's falling and falling and he's not. 

Epsilon slammed upright, heaving, gasping, shuddering breaths. He’d never actually fallen into the kind of sleep where he _could_ dream, it had always been fitful and restless, an hour at a time, three if he was lucky. He sat there, hair matted down with sweat and heart beating too fast. Breathe, Epsilon. Breathe. He pressed the back of his hand against his neck, counting the pulses and waiting and breathing until he was calmed down. Okay. Okay. He's fine. Just a dream. They were just dreams. He sprawled back out, staring up at the ceiling and drumming his fingers against his stomach. Being a collection of so many people’s memories was about as fun as one would expect, which is to say, _not_ _at_ _all_. 

He kept staring at the ceiling, trying to relax. It was grey outside, fog burning off as the sun rose and oozed through the bushes. His shirt was stuck to his chest with sweat, and he'd kicked off his blankets in his sleep. Grif was snoring like a chainsaw in the other room. Would it be an overstepping of boundaries to go crawl into bed with him? Of course it would be, Epsilon was a grown-ass robotic memory conglomerate, he didn't need to go- 

He was doing it anyways. He was definitely doing it anyways. Epsilon did his best to walk softly, creeping into the other room and curling up over the covers next to Grif. This was a mistake. He should leave, probably. That would be a great idea. Instead of doing  _ that _ , like a normal human being, he just closed his eyes and dozed off again. He could worry later. Right now he needed a decent morning’s sleep. 

And he got that, got a few hours of deep, dreamless rest. A hand was sitting heavy on his belly, Grif’s stubbly face squished into his shoulder. Epsilon didn't know why he hadn't expected this. His bedmate was warm, though, warm and soft and comforting. This was fine. You could sleep in the same bed as somebody else, it wasn't weird or anything. Right? Epsilon told himself it wasn't. 

He just closed his eyes again, breathing steadily and brushing his fingers through Grif’s hair. It gave him time to think, calmed him down. He'd woken up because of a nightmare, last night. He got those, sometimes, when he fell asleep long enough. It was the main reason he didn't sleep all that much, really. Having the Director’s memories, Carolina’s, Washington’s, now Grif’s- being a little blue brain sponge had its ups and downs, and the nightmares? Definitely a down. 

Being able to sift through the good memories, that was an up. On mornings like this, he could lie down and sort and catalogue, figure out what was what. 

Fingers curled through dark hair, pulling it into a severe ponytail as a little girl laughed and complained, said  _ Dad, you're doing it wrong, _ that was Church, the real Church. York grinning at a bad joke, that one was tough. Could've been Wash, could've been Carolina. No, it was smokey, dark, club setting, there was a glass of something dark in front of York- this was Carolina. York had a tie on that had little fish patterned over it. Awful tie. Three kids playing tag, laughing and shrieking and a little girl, seven, eight, falling to the ground and staining her knees green. He'd seen these kids before, those were Wash’s sisters. Wash had some happy memories, they were there. He had a family and people who loved him, even when he went off to the army. Wash was good. He just needed a hug and a lot of therapy and medication and probably a good support system in place. 

Epsilon hummed to himself, smiling as he sorted. This was definitely the best part of the AI situation. He didn't have childhood memories of his own, nothing to look back on that was his. He had to settle, but settling was okay, sometimes. 

The next one he came up on made him feel just a little uncomfortable, like he was trespassing. He recognized the back porch and the bench and the overgrown bush in the yard. Grif’s memories. There was sheet music scattered across his lap, pen in hand, Simmons laying out across the other half of the bench with his head pillowed against the side of Grif’s stomach. He was typing on a tablet, looked like some sort of coding program, and Grif, Epsilon, the person in the point of view would lift his arm to brush through Simmons’ hair. The light was soft and grey, like it had just rained. 

Epsilon shook himself, opened his eyes. Bad AI. No snooping in tender moments. Delta noted that he was a bit of a voyeur. Maybe Delta was right. 

* * *

 

“You know, you are  _ really _ pretty.”

Simmons’ train of thought was interrupted as he tapped away at a string of code on his phone. Donut had made dinner, something with sausage and waffles that Simmons had wolfed down too quickly to even notice what it was exactly. They were clearing the plates off now, while Caboose napped with his head on the table. As they were bustling they'd made comments to themself, but this was the only one Simmons had heard. 

“I mean, really! You do know that, right?”

It was flattering, to say the least. Especially coming from Donut, who was, by anyone’s opinion, gorgeous. Simmons wasn't staring or anything, but they were curvy and strong and just overall good-looking even with the brown starburst scar on their face. Their good eye was dark brown, almost black, and they had soft lips and gapped front teeth and the barest shadow of scruff on their chin. Black freckles over their nose and a headband around the base of their hair hiding the black roots of their blonde flattop-

“No, I, uh. I don't really get called pretty, actually. Not those words.”

“Well, that's a shame! I tell ya, if you and Grif had an open relationship…”

Simmons sputtered, setting his phone down to now  _ properly _ stare at Donut. 

“A  _ what? _ ”

“Open relationship, Simmons! It's the 26th century! You know, polyamory, threesomes, things like that.”

“I. I thought that was just cheating.”

“Oh, you beautiful ignorant tropical fish. You just let ol’ Donut teach you all about-”

“Okay, no, ol’ Donut is not going to teach me anything, how about that, I’m married and I'm not-”

“Wait, you  _ married  _ Grif ?”

Simmons fucked up. Simmons fucked up, royally. He cleared his throat, looked down at his phone and ran his thumbs over the edges. Oh no. 

“No, it's a figure of speech.”

“And you didn't invite  _ me _ to the wedding? You didn't- Simmons! How could you!”

Donut was betrayed, clearly. Which was ridiculous. There hadn’t even been a wedding, really, there wasn't the money or the friends or the time or the energy for it- Simmons tried to explain this to Donut. Operative word there being tried. Donut, instead of realizing they should drop the subject, firmly insisted on planning a “proper” wedding. This was going to be a disaster.

* * *

 

The day Simmons came back was mixed, for Grif. On the one hand, agonizing, excruciating all-over pain, to the point where he forced Epsilon to drive while he laid down in the backseat of the car and waited for his pain meds to kick in. On the other, Simmons was home again, looking put together and fixed up and happier than usual. He'd reached back to flick Grif’s belly, teasing him good-naturedly about being lazy and napping on the job. It was quiet and relaxed and  _ nice _ , and Grif could really appreciate that. Nothing weird went on, it was just a drive home with his husband and a friend. 

Grif had hobbled out of the car when they were back at the house, and Simmons had immediately gotten an arm around Grif’s shoulders to help him inside. His metal one was warm and didn't make any gross grinding noises like it used to, and Grif gladly leaned into the support. Then it was Simmons dragging him off to bed and rolling him up in blankets, managing to find a laptop to play a movie on. He curled up by Grif, cold feet squished up against his leg. 

“Missed you.”

Grif pushed himself up to drag Simmons down closer and kissed him on the cheek. His husband, ever appreciative, made a face and scrubbed the kiss off. 

“Gross. I missed you too, dummy. Oh, by the way, Donut has a couple things to say.”

“Spare me until I’m used to you being home again.”

Simmons rolled his eyes at Grif. What a jerk. Grif just pinched his side and wrapped around him like a clingy little sloth, because dammit, he was going to enjoy this. He’d made some really bad decisions while Simmons was gone, but now he was back, and nothing resembling those decisions was ever going to happen again. A hand curled through Grif’s hair, scratching behind his ear. 

“You need a haircut. Donut wants us to get properly married.”   
“I’m not doing that, and we are. Courthouse and everything. Legally, we’re the Simmons-Grifs.”

“Yeah, and legally your middle name is Lazer, but that doesn’t mean I have to acknowledge it. They mean like a ceremony. White dress and a priest and throwing rice and stuff.”

“Well, that just won’t work. I don’t have the right skintone for a white dress. I can do a lavender, maybe. Or a sky blue.”

“Shut up, you fucking- They want to plan a wedding. Can I tell them to not do that.”

“No. We’re doing it.”

“You’re horrible. Also, they mentioned something about, I don’t know, open relationships. I still think those are just cheating, what’s. What’s up with that.”

“It’s when you date multiple people, it’s not hard to grasp. Have you only ever felt strong emotions towards one person at a time?”

“Don’t talk about my strong emotions. Why?”

“I dunno, ‘cause sometimes you like multiple people. Shit, Dick, I’m not a psychologist.”

Simmons  _ seemed _ satisfied with that answer, shifting to rest his head against Grif’s shoulder. He slid his fingers under Grif’s shirt, kneading at his belly. Grif just did his best not to squirm or break into distinctly unmanly giggles. He was ticklish. Unbearably so. His valiant attempt at self-control was rewarded, though, when Simmons hummed and traced his fingers down over the waistband of Grif’s sweatpants. 

“D’you think it’s a good idea?”

“For us, or in general?”

“Take your pick.”

“Uh. Yes?”

“So... I could call Epsilon in here...” 

“You don’t have a sex drive, you have a fucking sex flux capacitor.”

Simmons shrugged. Unbelievable. Well, no, that wasn’t true, it was totally believable. Grif just had a hard time understanding it. It was some coping mechanism or another, something Simmons didn’t bring up in the two group therapy sessions they’d tried. Grif just chalked it up to “bad shit” and did his best to help. Different people, different issues. Grif didn’t explain his impulses, Simmons didn’t explain his hypersexuality, they both did dumb shit sometimes and they both tried to keep existing. It worked, sometimes. 

Like now, for example. The laptop ended up forgotten, pushed to the side and settled on the nightstand. It wasn’t desperate, just hands laced through Grif’s hair as Simmons dragged him into kisses that were almost uncharacteristically soft. He wasn’t even groping or biting or whining, just kissing. What the hell happened up in Iowa? This wasn’t like Simmons- Wait, no. That was him pushing Grif onto his back, legs slung across Grif’s hips, still kissing him but now there were teeth and hands pushing down his sweatpants. Simmons made a frustrated noise, broke off and glared down at Grif. 

“Really?”

“Really what, I didn’t think I’d have anyone come even close to my dick, so-” 

“You couldn’t even spring for nice panties? These look like they came in a six pack at Wal-Mart. They’re so, cheap and lacy...”

“I am a tiny fat dude! Take me shopping for nice panties that fit me and then you can complain about the Wal-Mart ones.” 

Still grumbling, Simmons balled up Grif’s sweatpants and tossed them off to the side, where they should have smacked against the closed door. Instead of doing that, they sailed through the very open door, hitting the back of the couch where Epsilon must have been, given the squawking. Did that guy do anything other than sit on the couch and freeload? Get a job. 

“Alright, you two, I understand that you’re married and all that, I’m totally cool with that, I support the, people like you, gay, people- Homosexual Americans, but if you’re going to fuck, can you please,  _ please _ either shut the door first, or don’t mention me beforehand?”

Simmons blanched, clearing his throat to speak up in a voice that wasn’t eighty percent breakage. 

“What, jealous?” 

Points for bravado, Simmons. Grif just nudged his side with his knee, eyebrows furrowed in a look that he hoped conveyed a high enough degree of confusion. What was he  _ doing _ ? 

“Could not be the least jealous. And I heard the thing about calling me in there, so I think you’re projecting. Lemme finish my conversation with Donut and I’ll think about it. ”

“Oh. You, you don’t have to do that-”

Epsilon cackled from the living room, presumably at the absolutely broken tone of Simmons' voice. Well, that could’ve gone better. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :>c  
> nothing to say about this one, really. i kinda just wanted a simple cheap chapter to establish some further plot points and all that  
> oh, donut. the fun you're going to have next chapter.  
> also i promise i wont wuss out eventually i will write some actual like. proper smut for this. im just too much of a fan of these dummies gettign interrupted.  
> tumblr is still grif-exe! any kind of feedback helps \o/


	10. Robotics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donut and Caboose plan a wedding, Sarge is rude, Lopez has a run in with a nurse.

Let it not be said that Franklin D. Donut was not a good friend. Donut was among the best of friends, as well as a kickass party planner! And so help them God, if Grif and Simmons didn’t get the fairytale wedding they wanted- They wanted a fairytale wedding, right? Well, they were getting one! They were getting the beachy Hawaiian summer, no, autumn wedding that everyone wanted! Donut was going to plan it and it was going to be  _ amazing.  _

They started off by sleeping for ten hours. They were tired, so sue them. When they woke up, it was six P.M. and they were more than pumped to start the planning. Caboose came into the room sometime after seven, picked Donut up and deposited them on his lap. He rested his chin on top of their head, making upset, whining noises. Donut reached up from their laptop, curling a hand through his hair. 

“What’s up, ‘Boose?”

Caboose shook his head, fingers sneaking up under Donut’s shirt and tracing shapes on their skin. Soft patterns, traces and curves- He was spelling out words, definitely. Donut waited until he spread his palm out flat and whined again, pressing his face into the crook of their neck.   
“Not a talkin’ day, huh? That’s alright, you can just hang out here. Think you can help with the planning?”

He nodded, kissing the side of Donut’s neck once, softly, before dropping his chin on their head again. It settled into something quiet and domestic, Donut chattering about color schemes while Caboose listened and relaxed, occasionally pointing out things he thought looked better. They both agreed that no, neither of them would look very good in a dress, Grif would just stain it and Simmons would be too grumpy and embarrassed to rock it. It had to be on a beach, you didn't get married in Hawaii without it being on a beach. Would either of them appreciate the tacky kitsch aesthetic of tiki torches and fake leis? Grif might get a laugh out of it. Or call Donut a racist. Either way, couldn't go wrong. They’d just run all their plans by Grif and Simmons really quick, and then start getting everything ready. Efficient. 

As it turned out, reaching either of those two was like trying to put pants on a snake-  _ absolutely impossible.  _ Grif didn’t pick up his damn phone, ever, despite Donut calling probably ten times. Simmons picked up on the first ring, but sounded like he was very much in the middle of something, so Donut just said they’d call back later. They leaned back against Caboose, closing their eyes and sighing.

“Feeling any better?”

He nodded, winding both his arms around Donut’s waist and hugging him closer. His voice was quiet and a bit gravelly, but at least he was talking. 

“There were explosions in class today.”

“Is your school okay, or…?”

“In the presentation. They were loud.”

Donut laced their fingers through their partner’s hair. Poor Caboose. Now, they tried to keep a positive face on. Donut tried, really really hard. They didn't want to think about the bad things that had happened, not when so much good was around! There was- there was- Well, something good came out of all this. Chorus was safe. There was one less evil old bastard running around and ruining people’s lives. On a macro level, really, it was awesome! They were heroes! But. 

But everyone had just been. On a micro level, where it was all the soldiers, individually. Everyone. They were all. 

They'd ended up worse for the wear, to put it lightly. After the war it was all psychiatrists and physical therapy and hearing aid batteries and no driving after this pill and sorry, we can't have someone looking like you up front, you might scare people, maybe you can work stock? Donut was a nice person. They were a nice person, an optimist, always putting on a happy face for other people. And they'd come out of everything better than most, goodness. Even Caboose…

Donut sighed, tugging Caboose’s hair gently and turning to kiss his cheek. Who took a little kid away from his family to turn him into a- a war machine? And not even successfully! Now he was all scarred neurons and diminished processing capabilities, leaving him spacey and hurt and upset, something he shouldn't  _ have _ to deal with. Caboose should've been happy and living on an off-planet colony somewhere, not going nonverbal because of a college presentation. 

“Your face is unhappy.”

Caboose shifted, hands settling around Donut’s hips and turning them in his lap. He didn't look Donut in the eye, gaze cast halfway between their nose and lips. 

“It's okay, ‘Boose. I'm just thinking.”

“I do not think you should think about things that make your face unhappy. I like your face too much for it to be unhappy. Weeeeee should do something, something that you like, and then it will make your face happy again!”

“I like that idea, Caboose.”

* * *

 

Caboose wasn’t a genius, but he knew what was happening in his life. Sure, he was autistic, yes, always had been, brain-damaged, yes, for a while now, slow on the uptake and bad at remembering things and bad at sentence structuring, yes- but he understood things. He understood that Donut got upset sometimes, that even though they were normally very happy, yes, sometimes they got very quiet and their mouth turned down at the corners and they didn't focus on things well. So when Donut got that unhappy look on their face, Canoose knew he had to try and cheer them up! It was a good idea. So he thought and thought and decided that the best way to make them happy again was to help with the wedding. They'd gotten invested in it, now, so help would make them happy!

So Caboose took it upon himself to personally call everyone he could think of that knew Grif and Simmons and invite them. He ran the idea by Donut first, of course, that totally happened first and not after Donut handed him a list of people to call once Caboose had just started going through their contact list and calling everyone. Yes. 

Epsilon picked up very quickly, and he sounded grumbly and hoarse. 

“Yeah, Donut. Hi.”

“Church! It's me!”

“It's me, wh- Oh. Yeah, hey, Caboose. What's goin’ on, buddy?”

“We are planning a wedding and Donut wants to know if you can come! Do you think Grif likes tiki torches? Because Donut said that he would, but I do not know if I would want torches at my wedding, so why we he want them at his…”

It was quiet on the other end of the line, and then a rush of static as Epsilon sighed. 

“Okay, fuck, I thought you and Donut were gonna get married and I was just- yeah, no, definitely yes on the tiki torches. Thousands of them. Just. Light the entire- Where are you putting their wedding?”

“The beach!”

“Fuck, light the entire ocean on fire. That many tiki torches.”

“So you're coming?”

“Am I being given a choice?”

“You're coming!”

They held a conversation for a while longer, Epsilon sounding less grumpy as it went on. He was doing fine, wasn't sleeping great but that's not new, he was glad Caboose called since he was bored beyond belief- It was a good conversation. Much better than the following one, with Tucker, where Tucker just said that he had a very important job and if he could, he would attend the, his words, “homo festival”. Tucker was rude. The group of friends on Chorus were mixed, generally. Carolina said yes, Kimball could only ship out for a day or two, and Grey would love to spend time and do checkups on everyone. Caboose had to ask after Smith. It had been a long time, and Kimball’s smile was audible when he was mentioned. 

“I think you'd be proud of him! He's well on his way to being promoted to… Lina, I forget, was it Andersmith who was, or-”

Softly, a few feet away on the other line; “Smith  _ was  _ promoted to lieutenant colonel last week, Vanessa.”

“Yes, that's right, sorry- There you go, Caboose! Lieutenant colonel. He's said a lot of his success was because of your influence, you know.”

Caboose wiggled in his seat, leg bouncing, trying to keep his hands as still as possible so as not to knock on the table. He ended up failing, hands flapping at the ends of his wrists and hitting his thigh as he excitedly told Kimball to convey his congratulations. On the other end of the line, Kimball laughed. 

“I'll tell him you’re very proud, Caboose, don't worry.”

That was good. That left Caboose very excited and very happy for Smith, and it carried over as he kept calling. Bitters was a resounding “meh”, Jensen said that she wouldn't miss- s-sound said properly, suck it, old braces!- it for the world, and Matthews sounded like he was going to start crying, for one reason or another. Caboose never got a solid answer from him. Neither Smith nor Palomo picked up. He'd call them again later. He'd call them- wait. What was he calling them for? He looked down at the little note Donut had given him. Grif and Simmons’ wedding! There was only one more person to call, that was Sarge, Sarge was… Yes, the old red team leader. Red leader. Was he from Star Wars. Maybe he was the captain of their X-Wing.

“Hello? Hello? Dammit, Donut, I told you-”

“Hello!”

“Wait a- You’re not Donut! Caboose, what the fresh hell are you doin’ calling me at dinner?”

“Inviting you to a wedding!”

* * *

Sarge set his phone down on the table at that, hands splayed across his face. This wasn’t how he wanted his night to go. He just wanted to have a nice meal, and then maybe fix the busted sprocket in his ankle. He didn’t want to deal with Caboose.

“Caboose, what business do you have gettin’ married?”

“No, Sarge- No! Not me. Grif and Simmons!”

“Oh. Well, then, no.”

On the other end of the line, Caboose went quiet. Maybe he wasn’t expecting that answer. Sarge wasn’t sure why. He’d made it pretty clear that no, he wasn’t exactly all that supportive of… All that mess. Simmons deserved better, probably. As long as he found someone who could fix up his cyborg parts so Sarge didn’t have to do it, Sarge didn’t care who he had. As long as it wasn’t Grif. God, did he still despise Grif. Not ten minutes after they’d been formally dismissed from active service, Grif had damn near broken down sobbing. Completely unsavory. Caboose spoke up, again.

“I think Simmons would like it if you could come.”

“Yeah, well. Simmons is a big boy. He’ll have to start getting used to the host of disappointments his life with Grif is sure to hold.”

“...Are you saying no for sure.”

“I am most definitely sayin’ no, blue.”

Sarge gave Caboose a token moment of protesting before hanging up. He pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing his plate off to the side and resting his forehead on the table. This was too much. He just wasn’t ready for this. His head felt like static, black and white fuzz, and his throat was dry. His knee, the one remaining flesh one, throbbed and burned more than usual. He glared at it. Fuckin’ metal, robotic, stupid cyborg legs. They'd been acting up, lately. Would've been great if he hadn't taken a massive spill two decades ago, crumpled both his legs like fleshy soda cans. If he had a time machine to go back and tell his younger self to not be a damn Helljumper-

A surge, searing, hot, electric, and everything went white.

* * *

 

Lopez was not one to stress himself over the well-being of others. He had no soft spots, only synthetic muscles under reinforced carbon-fiber plating, topped off with a Mark VI helmet, since no one had bothered to give him a face. Sometimes he performed maintenance around the house, sometimes he sat around and read novels, and sometimes he went out and drove to town to walk around in the park and feed pigeons for a few hours. That didn’t mean he had stressed himself out.

When he heard the excessively loud (to him) electrical surge from the kitchen, he wasn’t stressed out. He might have hurried to the kitchen, stumbled, nearly had the robot equivalent of a heart attack when he saw Sarge slumped over the table.

He sat in the waiting room of the emergency room, knees pressed together and fingers curling and uncurling in his lap. There was a man with bloody tissue pressed against his nose, glaring over at Lopez like he’d murdered this man’s cat in front of him and then made the corpse do a puppet-dance. Well, he was obviously nonhuman. That wasn’t always something people liked. A woman with a clipboard called out Sarge’s real name, something Lopez could never for the artificial life of him remember. Sometimes he thought he was programmed not to. She explained that it was best if they transferred him to a proper hospital, removed his prosthetics and did a thorough examination just to make sure he was okay. 

This wasn’t how Lopez wanted today to go. It brought up too many questions. The attendant at the hospital looked him over and quirked an eyebrow as he explained that technically, yes, he was family, he had Sarge’s medical records, he had visitation rights, if he could just get some kind of idea about what was going on, that would be great. It was almost a big deal, but the attendant on duty eventually relented and let him into the room. In the few measly hours they’d argued with Lopez, Sarge had gotten hooked up to IV tubes and a monitor and looked sickly and pale and- No, he was alive, it was okay. 

It was okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man fuck iowa, i never want to write about anyone from iowa ever again.  
> next chapter i swear to god ther'es gonna be smut. simmons deserves an orgasm. give this boy cummies.  
> anyways next chapter might take longer to write because of aforementioned orgasms but yknow that's fine it'll be well written and there's gonna be good shit.  
> man i'm fucking tired.  
> grif-exe: still my tumblr, still somewhere you can scream headcanons at me. feedback is appreciated and comments/constructive criticism literally always make me write faster so! yes. i hoep you enjoyed.


	11. Regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epsilon is there to pick up the pieces.

It started, as most bad days start out, with more nightmares. Now, Epsilon had his chip implanted into a few people, some for longer periods of time, some for shorter. He’d get flashes of Carolina’s memories, loops of Washington’s, long periods of time where all he could _think_ about was the Director, and now he’d get little sparks of Grif, once in a while. The only person he’d implanted into that he didn’t get memories from was Tucker. He’d only been inside Tucker (sometimes he hated being an AI, just because of phrases like that) for a short amount of time before he, well. Self-destructed. Again. But that time was controlled, and he was sure not to throw off any errant debilitating and overall not good memories into Tucker when he did off himself.

But apparently, being reassembled from his splintered pieces gave him a real proper play-by-play of what happened in that room. It was great. Sure, he knew the outcome- they came out on top. There were injuries, it looked bad, but they made it out of their supposed last stand alive. That didn't make it any less _fucking terrifying_ to watch. There wasn't a moment to rest, either. He was a passive observer, and it was too much to observe. Heat, explosions, blood so much blood on the floor, gunshots pinging off armor and off metal walls- someone was yelling, yelling at someone else to get up- they were fine, no one died Epsilon wished he could tell them that-

He woke up in a cold sweat, red marks on his face from the edge of the kitchen table. Must've forgotten he'd fallen asleep. He rubbed his eyes with a shaky hand, fumbling across the table to find his phone. Five in the morning. He hoped he was the only one up, but Epsilon should know better by now, know better than to set himself up for disappointment. There was clearly some kind of hushed, furious discussion going on in the other room. He strained his ears, shifted his chair closer to the opposite wall so he could listen in.

“...Trying, you're not giving me enough to…”

“I'm trying to! It's not my fault you…”

“Low _fucking_ blow you piece of-”

Still nothing more than scraps of conversation. Epsilon’s stomach twisted. This wasn't a normal fight, it was pitching up and getting louder and that was Simmons, that was Simmons sounding _angry_ , and Grif, Grif sounded like he was going to throw up. A thump on the floor, three-legged gait, Grif was pacing, now, but Simmons was the one to speak up next.

“Is this about Epsilon, or-”

“No, it's not, I don't care about that right now, he's fine, I like him, he can be in whatever this is it's fine…”

“Then drop it, let me help-”

“I don't need you to take care of me, I've been-”

“Let me _try,_ why won't you-”

“Because everyone who _could’ve_ helped me is dead, and now I’m stuck with _you!_ ”

Silence. No more pacing. No more arguing. Thick, oppressive, hurtful silence. Epsilon stood up, trying to be as quiet as possible, walking out of the kitchen to go sit on the couch, maybe pretend to be asleep like he didn't hear any of this. He sat down, leaned back, laced his fingers over his belly and closed his eyes. Asleep. Forget that happened. It didn't happen. He lived with two people who were messed up, but they worked well together and didn't fight. This didn't happen. Relax, maybe he could- Epsilon slipped into the back of his headspace, shoving Eta and Iota up to front, not letting himself deal with this. Out of control, out of sight, out of mind, Epsilon slipped away into obscurity for a little while.

* * *

 

Simmons snapped upright like a spring, every muscle in his body suddenly pulled tight enough to snap. It was jarring. It was a revelation, really, something Grif had clearly been thinking on for a long time, and given the way Grif had slapped a hand over his mouth and how his eyes widened, something he hadn't meant to say. It was. It felt like some wire in Simmons’ brain had crossed, like some perception of the world had been ripped up and shredded in front of him. They were quiet, silent, for a long time. Grif had a hand fisted in his hair, staring down at the floor as he murmured to himself, eyes still blown out. Simmons didn't know what to do. His feet propelled him out of the room, almost like he was on autopilot, deposited him outside, on one of the lawn chairs. He didn't know how to feel. He just dropped his head into his hands, metal fingers raking through his hair, chest heaving, eyes watering.

* * *

 

Grif said that. He said that. He said what he was thinking and what he was thinking had been something awful and he had- Oh, God. He watched Simmons straighten out, saw the blood drain from his face, saw him get up stiffly and leave the room. He could feel his knees wobble, threaten to give out, he leaned hard on his cane and did his best to hobble out of the bedroom to sit down next to Epsilon. He needed reassurance, he needed someone to tell him that yeah, he fucked up, but it would be okay, he'd fix it, he wasn't a big screw up. He wasn't. Right? He was trying. He just made a mistake. It had been a mistake. This had been a mistake. He was a mistake.

* * *

 

Grif couldn’t breathe.

Simmons’ heart was racing.

Epsilon couldn’t stay away from fronting.

* * *

 

Epsilon was jostled back to the front by Eta and Iota, the twins whispering, telling him that this was his problem, not theirs, don't drag them into this. It was nice while it lasted, at least. He shifted, stirred, stretched his arms out and popped his back as he settled back into being in control. Grif was curled up against the arm of the couch, nails dug into his donated wrist. Oh. Well. At least he was easier to deal with. Epsilon shifted, moving closer and nudging Grif with his shoulder.

“Hey. Grif. Gr- Dexter. Dex, look at me.”

Grif shook his head, opening his mouth to talk, but- Nothing. He couldn't talk. Delta spoke up, a flicker of green in the back of the headspace, calling it a verbal shutdown. Epsilon nodded, slid a hand across Grif’s back, and moved closer. It was messy, this was a bad situation, but it wouldn't be unfixable. It just… Wasn't good. Epsilon sat back, feeling Grif shake and scratch his arm and try to breathe. He could figure this out. He just had to think.

“I know it's not the time, maybe, but. If you can't figure out what to say, implant me, I'll jump into Simmons, relay all the, uh. Apologies? You can just work on calming down. You, uh. You messed up, here, but I- We’ll help you fix it. You're a good guy, and you didn't- you didn't mean it.”

Grif shrugged, mumbling something too quiet for Epsilon to hear.

“And if you did, then you go over there and talk and you fix it, ‘cause I’m your friend, and I'm gonna kick your ass until you do. Deal?”

“Yeah. Deal.”

It took all of ten minutes for Epsilon to be implanted again. The holopatch- high end, apparently, one of those that you stuck onto your skin and over a period of however long it'd be absorbed, giving you a year or however long of- enough with the tech talk, right. The holopatch wasn’t needed, now, this was just a quickie, an in-and-out, Epsilon rooting through Grif’s cerebral cortex. Sexy. Implant, get what needed to be said, get out. That was how it worked, and Epsilon was sticking by it. Even if that wasn’t _really_ accurate, Epsilon got a good enough idea of what to do anyways. Uninstall, back into the custom flesh suit, leave Grif with a hesitant kiss on the cheek, and head outside to try and get this fixed.

Simmons was curled up in one of the lawn chairs, chest hitching and the soft glow of the LCD screen on his ribcage showing vitals that were… Well, pretty consistent with an anxiety attack. Epsilon pulled one of the other chairs up next to Simmons, clearing his throat just to let him know he was there.

“Hey, it’s uh. It’s me. Grif’s, kinda fucked up right now, so- I’m, I’m the messenger, I’m here to deliver his apology, through, freaky AI magic. So, if you want, there’s the chip, which would make it a lot easier, or I can just talk it through, which I’m not really as good at doing, I’ve kinda gotten used to the-”

“Yeah, fine. Turn around.”

Well, that was easy.

* * *

 

Simmons was never good with AIs. He’d never had to carry Epsilon around in his head, and the six months where he’d gotten stuck with Sigma were a little less than perfect, what with Carolina and Washington watching him like a pair of hawks. No, he wasn’t going to turn into the next Meta, thanks for the concern, but please stop hovering over the bed while he slept, it was getting scary. So he wasn’t surprised, really, when he ended up dry-heaving with his head between his knees. It was loud. Very loud. But it was fast, just a big swell of voices and then a hiss, everything stopping just as quickly as it had started. Something in his metal arm clicked, whirred softly, and Epsilon appeared out in front of him.

“So, holy shit, first of all. Are you okay?”

“In reference to what, exactly.”

“The whole, childhood-”

“No. Can you get on with whatever you were getting on with.”

Simmons laced his fingers together behind his head, still curled up over his own lap and trying not to throw up. The little silver-blue hologram floating in the air flickered and disappeared, silent, again. Simmons just held his position, mind fuzzy, empty, bored, before-

He melted. It was gradual, warm, soft, but he _relaxed._ Which was, yeah, really weird for him. He was a little bit of a high-strung guy, so actually _being_ relaxed was bizarre. It was a little sad that he couldn’t do that without the help of- Whatever the hell Epsilon could be called. But it was nice. If he had to describe the feeling, he’d call it a glow. A soft, yellow glow.

“That any better?”

“It- Yeah, of course it’s better, what did you do?”

“Honestly, not a lot. You’re really wound up. Like, constantly. I’m serious, dude, are you okay?”

“We’ve established that as a resounding “no”. Item is now off the table. What’d you do this for?”

“Oh, yeah, right-”

Speaking of soft yellow glow. Epsilon had faded out, blue wavering for a second as it shifted to orange. Old habits die hard, and associating colors with the people you went through hell and back with- Well, apparently that was one goddamn immortal habit. Grif, a projection of Grif, the image he had in his head about what he looked like or how he saw himself, whatever- A tiny, orange version of his husband was being projected in front of him. This was clearly a recording, maybe something Epsilon cobbled together.

“So, hey, Dick. I kinda, sorta, massively fucked up. Sorry. Getting that out of the way, first of all. No excuses. You haven’t- You’ve been a jerk, sometimes. Name is a hundred percent deserved. But you didn’t deserve, _that_. Just cause I’m fucked up about my, uh. My sister, and- No, you know, you know, it’s just. Totally my fault. Shouldn’t take it out on you.”

It was bizarre. It was concise and apologetic and open and not beating around the bush. It was an apology. Grif didn’t _do_ those. Not verbally. Simmons reached out, passed a finger through the hologram. It sparked, flickered and disconnected, orange light fading out. What time was it? Almost six, Simmons could see the sky going lighter, damn summer or almost-summer, fucking hell- Epsilon flickered back into view, kicking his feet sheepishly.

“Hope you don’t mind me relaying that. Just figured it was easier, and all.”

“You’re fine, it’s fine. Do you want to get back in your body, or…?”

“Uh. So, here’s the thing, I actually, really don’t, at all, so-”

Simmons waved a hand, tucking his legs up under himself as he curled up on his chair. He was still relaxed from whatever the hell Epsilon did a while ago, so he was going to capitalize on this. Just for a few minutes.

“Hey, Simmons? Is, that fight, you know, that wasn’t about me, right? I mean, I’ll call the UNSC and check out if I’m-”

“Jesus, Church, not everything is about you. Narcissist.”

“Fuck you. Go- go be stupid with your husband. Jerk.”

* * *

 

Grif was doing great. He was in the living room, Kaikaina’s senior picture pulled out of its frame and held at arm’s reach so he could look at it. Sure, he was crying, just a little, maybe a lot, maybe he was thinking about how much he’d screwed his own damn life up, but no. He was great. He was doing awesome, in fact! God, he had fucked himself. He had screwed over literally everyone he knew. His mom was dead, because of him being drafted, he hadn’t been around to take care of her. Kai was.

Kai was gone. It was his fault. If he’d been around, hadn’t been drafted- If he could’ve gotten kicked out, maybe- But he hadn’t tried hard enough, hadn’t tried hard enough to get kicked out, but he’d done everything he could, right? He just couldn’t, because of Project _fucking_ Freelancer and- well, everyone else, everyone just keeping him there. If he’d tried harder-

Simmons sat down next to him, cleared his throat. Shit, no wait- Okay, clean up your face, sit up straight, look him in the eye- look him not in the eye, lean on him and sigh instead. That was fine.

“Where’s Epsilon?”

A blue hologram projected itself out onto Grif’s shoulder, sitting down, legs swinging. He was whistling. That was ridiculous. He had no lips. How was Epsilon whistling if he had no lips. Grif was glad when he stopped to speak up.

“So, you’re looking good.”

“I’m a mess, shut up.”

“No, really! The, uh. The crying really brings out the blue in your eyes.”

“...My eyes are brown.”

“No, no. They’re blue. Trust me, I’m a computer, I know things. Simmons, back me up.”

Simmons rolled his eyes, nudging Grif with his shoulder and sitting closer. His hands came up, cupped Grif’s cheeks, thumbs brushing over his eyelids. It was simple gesture, just a soft touch, but it made Grif’s stomach feel like the bottom dropped out of it. Simmons looked tired, face flushed, and yeah, Grif knew he’d messed up, but Simmons was here now, and- Well, maybe they both messed up a lot, but everything was going to _be_ okay, eventually- and another train of thought, but hey, he didn’t know if Kai was dead, for sure, really- He was just a big stupid idiot who worried too much, and sometimes you have to get kicked in the gut really, _really_ hard by your anxiety to see that. That didn’t make everything okay, not by a long shot, but hey, good idea, now- Suck it up, and let yourself be happy for once, Dexter. Simmons was muttering, eyebrows furrowed, mouth soft. His first sentence was whispered, an admonishment that he managed to make sound concerned.

“Don’t cry, you’re okay- No, definitely blue. Sorry, Dex. Guess you’ve been wrong about your eye color your entire life.”

“I have not! First of all, it's physically impossible for me to have blue eyes, okay, and I have baby pictures! I’ll- No, I’m not giving you the satisfaction. Fuck you two. You’re just fucking with me, cause they’re definitely brown.”

Epsilon cackled, little hologram-body tipping over Grif’s shoulder and dissipating as he fell. He reappeared back in front of Simmons, grinning. They were fucking with him, clearly. His eyes were brown and no hologram and gross husband would convince him otherwise.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where those baby pictures are, would you, Simmons?”

“Well, of course I do, Epsilon.”

And Simmons was off, bolting away on skinny little legs and ducking away from Grif’s arms. Grif was not even remotely ready to chase after him, so he laid back, tried to rest his feet up on the coffee table, tried to breathe again. He was tired, and really drained, but overall, he was going to be okay. Just relax. Breathe. He was okay. This was going to be okay. Simmons returned with a battered shoebox, trying to wiggle the top off. Epsilon was hovering over his shoulder again, tiny and blinking brightly and speaking up.  
“So, Grif, like I was saying, I still can’t believe that you have actual physical pictures.”

“Fuck yourself, Epsilon.”

Simmons curled up on the couch again, lifting up one of Grif’s arms to drape around his shoulders and curl up close. So, clearly upset and really, really wanting physical comfort at the moment. In another hour or so, he’d be calmed down and settled enough to want sex, but for now, it was just a hug. Grif knew him well enough to know his routine. He just dragged him closer, gave him a little kiss to the cheek, and stared down at the big box of photos. Epsilon was attempting to kick through them with his tiny hologram feet.

“You didn’t answer the question. What’s with the physicals?”

“Hey, arm psychologist. Don’t bring up my hoarding issues.”

“Don’t call me an arm psychologist, I’m not an arm psychologist. Simmons, Grif had a security blanket until he was twenty.”

“Yeah, well, you got beat up by a skinny white guy on your first day of deployment. Shut up.”

Suck it, Epsilon. Grif still had his blanket. How’s it feel to be wrong? Grif couldn’t say that, of course. But it should be on the record as his official statement to anyone that’s not Epsilon and can’t use it against him. So no one. No one could know.

“Not me, bitch! That was the director! My transparent ass hasn’t been beaten up by any skinny white guys!”

“Simmons could be your first.”

“Like he could take me! I bet he could beat your flabby butt into burger.”

A soft palm to the face for Grif, and a hand zipping through the hologram for Epsilon. Simmons spoke up, taking on the firm tone he only adopted when being wholly non-serious.

“No fighting over who I’m beating up. You’re both tiny and weak and unfit to fight me. And seriously, you guys are really not watching the innuendo there. His first? Beating Grif’s butt? I mean, I don’t live with Donut for a reason, guys.”

“Don’t worry, Grif’s a total slut, I bet he’d be all for it.”

“Hey, Epsilon, I’m going to go fart on your body. Right now.”

“Wh- No! No no no, Simmons you gotta take me back to my body- Simmons, get up! Simmons! Don’t laugh at this, you son of a bitch!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK I KEEP! PROMISING! SMUT! BUT I'LL GET TO IT NEXT CHAPTER YOU GUYS CAN COME BEAT ME UP IF I DON'T DELIVER NEXT CHAPTER  
> anyways yes. yes. grif sure has done a thing. things have been done. hm.  
> tumblr is still grif-exe! comments are lovely and i will probably sit there and wiggle happily for like ten minutes if you comment i love all of yall


	12. Raunchy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons finally gets an orgasm. So does Epsilon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is porn. yeah.

Now that the big mess was more or less settled, Simmons had a goal. Come hell or high water, this was happening. Simmons had gone for too long and come too close to let this go now. This was happening. It had been put off for too long. Simmons was going to have a goddamn orgasm. 

He hadn't needed to strategize or anything, thankfully, he'd gotten incredibly lucky. He stuck around after Grif’s apology, fingers brushing through his hair and trying to be more obviously affectionate. It was little things, hands brushing over the side of his stomach and little kisses on the cheek and cuddling closer than usual. They all were trying to relax as they looked through the box of pictures, atmosphere still tense, but giving way to something more carefree eventually. Grif eventually pried the box out of Simmons’ hands, pulling his phone out to show off the pictures he had saved of a much younger Simmons in revenge. That was more than a little horrifying. Epsilon just remarked that Simmons was still, his words, a huge fucking nerd, even as a little kid. Simmons couldn't get past the closed off way he used to act. A gangly little preteen, maybe eleven, folded arms and hunched shoulders and sweaters three sizes too big, butchered haircut that he'd done himself, that his stepdad had said, when he was fourteen, made him look like a lesbian, jokes on you, fucker, dark circles under his eyes and smudged glasses-

Uncomfortable. That was how it made him feel. No kid should have to look like that at eleven. The worst thing a kid like that should have to deal with was a broken arm from playing around and climbing trees with friends. Not- Not what he dealt with. Grif pressed his thumb against Simmons’ shoulder, reassuringly, skipping through the childhood pictures quickly. Simmons knew that he didn't understand, not the exact ramifications of the specifics or whatever, but he could make assumptions. Epsilon, little blue hologram Epsilon, threw him a look from his perch on Grif’s shoulder. 

_ You okay? _

Simmons would never get used to the nonverbal psychic communication bullshit. His hands flew up to the chip in the back of his neck, pressing hard against the seams. 

_ Fine, thanks. I could go for- _

_ Hey, no, don't start spilling your fantasies at me. That's kinda fuckin’ personal. D’you want to put me back in my body so you can get down to business? _

_ Fuck, please? _

“Hey, Grif. I'm gonna jump out of your husband so y’all can fuck.”

“ _ Epsilon!” _

“Well that's what I'm  _ doing _ !”

Grif was quiet, looking between Simmons and Epsilon. He was clearly very confused. Then he spoke up. 

“Who the fuck is y'all.”

“Grif, we’ll have the Texas-talk later. Right now, you really need to go bone your boyfriend. He's dying over here.”

Epsilon kicked his feet out, dematerializing and settling back comfortably into Simmons’ headspace. What a little brat. Simmons would have to get back at him for this stunt, this was- there were jokes and there were  _ jokes _ , and Simmons couldn't handle this kind of  _ joke.  _ He just grumbled and pried the chip out of the back of his neck, carrying it off to go implant it back into his roommate. He wasn’t going to just let it sit and be forgotten about, that would be cruel beyond what Simmons was comfortable doing, but Epsilon  _ was  _ going to pay for this. One way or another, in proper, passive-aggressive Dick Simmons fashion, Epsilon was going to pay.

* * *

 

Epsilon was paying for every wrong he had ever done. He had been a little bit of a jerk, maybe. Just the one time, at least today, and he- He’d been joking. It was a bit of an asshole joke, maybe a little mean, yes. This was unwarranted! This was just cruel! He cranked the TV volume up as high as he dared, keeping his shoulders tucked below the back of the couch so he couldn’t be seen. They hadn’t shut their door. They hadn’t shut their  _ fucking door _ . They never shut the door and it was going to kill him. Okay. Focus, Epsilon. Focus on the show about the doctors and this new medical mystery that definitely and obviously was a tapeworm in the brain. Focus on that. Don’t focus on the barely audible shuffling in the other room. They hadn’t shut the door, you know. If he peeked up over the couch he would be able to see whatever those two dummies were doing in all their gross, sweaty, naked sex-glory. Gross. If he just shifted and turned around, poked the top of his head over the back of the couch, and oh, no, look at that, clear fucking view. Whatever would he do. He turned around fully and rested on his knees, eyes barely peering out over the back of the couch. Sure, everyone in his headspace was admonishing him, and he was going to  kick himself so hard over this later- 

But holy  _ shit  _ did those two assholes manage to look hot. Grif was sprawled on his back across the bed, shirtless, Simmons’ hands pressed between his thighs and doing  _ something  _ that was obscured by fat dude leg. Speaking of Simmons,  _ holy shit  _ did he look like he was having fun. He was solidly seated directly on Grif’s face, hips rolling, head thrown back as he leaned down, busied himself with shoving Grif’s boxers down further. Grif’s legs were twitching as he lifted his hips up, Simmons tugged his shorts off, ohh that was his dick, that was very much an erection, what the fuck was Epsilon  _ doing?  _ Well, apparently, forcibly shoving everyone out of the front of the headspace so they wouldn’t be able to tease, reprimand, blackmail, or otherwise shame him in any capacity. This was so fucked up. This was so fucked up, he kept telling himself that. Maybe by repeating it, that made it less fucked up? No, that wasn’t how it worked. He shuffled around for the remote, aiming it back blindly at the television and turning the volume down a few notches. Not enough to be noticeable to anyone but him, really.

Oh, but it was enough. That was more than enough. Simmons was one vocal motherfucker, and Grif was doing something right, apparently, since he made his husband shudder and  _ groan _ , all hoarse and cracked and warbling up octaves as he rocked forward. Stupid sexy piece of shit face-riding motherfucker. Grif balled his hands in Simmons’ shirt, pulling it up before Simmons interrupted him to tug it over his head. What the fuck, what the  _ fuck _ . Sure, Epsilon had seen Simmons naked, or, mostly naked, before, Simmons really liked running around shirtless as some kind of aversion therapy-type stunt, but that wasn’t sexual, that had just been him being a fucking dweeb. Now he was seeing bony ribs sticking out under Simmons’ skin and his heart monitor flashing, one of Grif’s hands reaching up and tracing over his chest- Simmons jumped when Grif got a handful of tit, looking over his shoulder and down at whatever part of Grif’s face that wasn’t obscured by ass. He was  _ smiling _ , oh fuck, he was smiling, Simmons was legitimately enjoying this, he was having an intimate moment with his man and Epsilon was watching like a creepy little bastard and Simmons was looking at him. 

Simmons made eye contact with Epsilon. 

Simmons made eye contact with Epsilon and he moaned.

* * *

 

Grif really was doing his best. He thinked he deserved a little recognition for that, at least. Here he was, suffocating because of Simmons’ scrawny white butt, knowing completely that Epsilon was watching him and his husband get it on, and he was performing like a fucking champ. That wasn’t to say that he was performing, necessarily, this was enjoyable! He liked having Simmons on top of him, fully enjoying himself and managing to relax, and when Simmons rolled off his knees to straddle Grif’s hips, head bowed to kiss his forehead, well- If Simmons was content with this, then so was Grif.

“Dex? Dex, I’ve been thinkin’.”

“Been doing this thinking while you’re on top of my dick? Impressive.”

“Trust me, it’s not that big of a distraction. Anyways, I’ve been thinking, maybe it is a good idea to bring Epsilon into this. You know?”

“Dick, I did mention that I am literally inside you as we speak, and this is maybe not the best time to discuss this, right? It was subtext, but-” 

Simmons squinted down at Grif, mouth set in a hard line, and his hips raised, slid down again, hard. His hands were pressed into Grif’s shoulders, nails digging into his skin. Damned if it didn’t work, though, Grif clutching at Simmons’ thighs and biting back any number of embarrassing noises. Simmons leaned down again, kissing the side of Grif’s mouth. 

“Hang on for a couple more minutes, I’m almost finished. I’m serious though, I like Epsilon, you like Epsilon, Epsilon likes us, what’s stopping it?”

“You get jealous really easily.”

“I- No, I- Aw, fuck. I do, don’t I.”

Grif shifted, moved his hand to brush his thumb over his husband’s clit. Legs twitching, Simmons fisted his hands into Grif’s shirt and arched back, full-body shudder running over him as he climaxed. Another roll of Grif’s hips and he was right behind, and ew, gross, now he was all sweaty and sticky and-

“Dick, did you just-”

“No, no, I did not, shut up, shut your fucking mouth-” 

“You’re a squirter. Oh my god.”

“Wrong! No! Shut up!”

“I’m right! You got- You got vag juice all over my shirt, I’m-”

Simmons clapped a hand over Grif’s mouth, glaring down at him. He was red-faced, hair fluffed up and sticking out at odd angles, and he was making an expression somewhere between embarrassment and anger. Looping an arm around Simmons’ waist, Grif tugged him down to smooch his forehead. He loved this big dumb nerd, despite everything.

“So you really wanna bring Epsilon into this?”

“He did just masturbate to us, Dex. I’ll put aside my jealousy, for once.”

“He wasn’t jackin’ off. Was he?”

“Totally was.”

Grif sat up, twisting around and leaning on his elbow to peer up out the door and at the couch. His back made a loud, uncomfortable noise,  _ ow _ , Jesus Christ, and Simmons winced. He pressed one hand against Grif’s side, kneading his fingers over Grif’s ribs.

“C’mon, let’s go shower. You smell gross.”

“Aw, c’mon, you just rode me to hell and back. I’m hurting. Besides, you’re the squirter here, you’re the reason-” 

“Hey, Dexter, shut up, or I’m making you sleep on the couch. I’ll give you a back massage if you come shower with me?”

Grif pondered it for a moment. Now, getting up, that was hell. However, Simmons had nice hands, and if they showered together, Grif could be overly affectionate and touch all over his husband under the guise of helping him scrub down. Was there really a downside to this? Definitely not. Grif shucked his shirt off, balling it up and lobbing it over at the laundry bin. He missed by a few feet, but he’d pick it up later. Simmons lifted his hips up, making a face down at Grif. 

“You’re all slimy.”

“Don’t give me that, you fuckin’ creampie fetishist.” 

“It’s not a fetish! It’s a perk. Your balls are dead, so I can satisfy all my fantasies without worrying about getting pregnant.”

“A  _ perk _ ?”

Simmons cleared his throat, looking off to the side and away from Grif. Grif sat up, rested his hands on Simmons’ sides, and dug his fingertips into his husband’s soft belly. Simmons was one ticklish bastard, and the surprised shriek Grif got was more than enough revenge for the perk comment. 

“Alright, alright! Jesus, okay, let’s just go shower. You evil little man.”

“I dunno. I could go for a round two.”

“No, you couldn’t! You’ve never been able to go for round two!”

“People change, Dick. Epsilon’s voyeurism is just bringing out the best in me.”

Cue Epsilon, shrieking from the living room. 

“I didn’t watch anything!”

What a liar. Grif loved him all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SO BAD AT WRITING SMUT I HATE IT HOW COULD I DO THIS  
> please @ god help me  
> anyways next chapter might be formatted a little differently! planning on doing some stuff when it comes to grif's streaming channel  
> uh comments are appreciated! so is constructive criticism if i'm doing something wrong let me know!! i always like talking about this verse on my tumblr n i love yall so


	13. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kids these days, them and their "livestreams" and their "Skypes" and their "traumatizing experiences with father figures".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://grif-exe.tumblr.com/post/142535795005/ok-list-of-usernames-that-people-use-in here's the ref list for everyone's usernames!

_ HawaiianPaunch is now streaming! _

“Hey, uh. I guess I’m online! So, this is somewhere close to my hundredth- Yeah, this one is my hundredth stream. And I figured I’d do something special, since there’s a bunch of you guys on here now. So, you guys kinda know me, but I guess you don’t really know me, since I don’t ever share any information. Uh.”

_ goodbi commented: show us your dick _

“That- Okay, so apparently Epsilon has been allowed to use the internet. That’s a mistake. Uh. Yeah. That guy is Epsilon. He’s my- My roommate? I think he’s my roommate. Epsilon, what would you call us.”

_ goodbi commented: look you were ballsdeep in me not twenty minutes ago idk what to call us _

_ Cyborg-Revolution commented: That’s completely not even true. _

_ goodbi commented: yeah its not im just trying to bring the humor _

“You fuckers. Epsilon is my roommate. The other one is Dick, that’s- He’s the one you see walking around sometimes in the background of my streams, Dick, come- I can see you, you’re ten feet away from me.”

_ Cyborg-Revolution commented: No I’m not. That’s a holographic projection. I could be anywhere in the world right now. _

“You don’t even have a job, how’re you gonna go anywhere in the world. Dick is my husband, we’re married, and-”

_ beepbeep-its-the-lesbian commented: WHAT _

_ anarcho-whatever commented: dude i so fukcing calld it i told u donut was getting them a renunion wedding or som bs @palom3m3 u owe me like ten hjs _

_ palom3m3 commented: clearly you never learned your captain’s sense of humor!!!!!!! obviously he’s joking!!!!!!!!!!!!!! duh!!!!!!!!!!! _

“Who the- You’re not allowed in here! You’re tiny kids, there’s no- No lieutenants allowed, get out of here, so help me God, Bitters, I will tell Kimball-”

_ anarcho-whatever commented: nice try fuckr she doesnt control me anymore i hav a farm and a real job now _

_ J. E. Andersmith commented: But she  _ is  _ technically paying the salary of the only person who makes money on that farm _

_ anarcho-whatever commented: its fuckin matthewses farm n @J. E. Andersmith lt colonel hows it feel to know ur sleepign on the couch tonite _

_ palom3m3 commented: oooooohhhhhhh you just got kicked out smith!!!!! kicked tf out!!!!!!!! _

_ J. E. Andersmith commented: That’s fine. I still pay most of the bills _

_ anarcho-whatever commented: bs dude matthews pays the bills u bring home th hot military lovin _

_ J. E. Andersmith commented: I think I should say thank you? _

_ beepbeep-its-the-lesbian commented: NO BUT GUYS THEY’RE ALREADY MARRIED BUT WE WERE ALL INVITED TO THEIR WEDDING I THOGUHT THEY WERE JUST  _ GETTING  _ MARRIED DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MANY BETS HAVE TO BE FIXED NOW SDSKJFHSLADJFH _

“Why does everyone I know watch this trainwreck. Hey, can the normal people comment on my streams? Please? Anybody? I will literally pay you if somebody else comments. Like I’ll take a request or buy a game or something. Please. I’m begging you”

_ MikeBoose commented: you should play charades.  _

_ AfroPuffPastry commented: charades, yes! _

“I- Okay. Thank you, Caboose, Donut. I’m not going to play charades, but that’s a good suggestion, and I appreciate you being around. Thanks.”

_ AfroPuffPastry commented: aw, I love you too, Grif! _

_ Cyborg-Revolution commented: Set up Mario Kart. I want to see you get kicked into last place by a couple of robots. _

_ goodbi commented: dude fuck yeah i’m ready to kick ass at virtual baby gokarting _

“I could destroy both of you at Mario Kart. Dick, last time we played, you lost to nine AIs, me, and one of my old friends from high school that I haven’t talked to in a decade. And I was drunk off my ass! You’re literally the worst.”

_ Cyborg-Revolution commented: Say that to my face motherfucker not online. See what happens.  _

“Okay, fine.”

_ HawaiianPaunch is now idle! _

_ palom3m3 commented: guys do you think simmons killed him yet??? _

_ beepbeep-its-the-lesbian commented: Nah give them a couple minutes! Im sure theyre all fine! _

_ J. E. Andersmith commented: I don’t know, maybe we should start getting worried _

_ goodbi commented: nah theyre fine dw. im supervising. theyre pretty much making out as we speak _

_ anarcho-whatever commented: fuckin called it tho i told yo utheyd been married forever _

_ beepbeep-its-the-lesbian commented: You did not! You said captain grif was a, and i quote, “ lazy gay piece of shit” once that doesnt count as calling it _

_ anarcho-whatever commented: uh yeah it does kate who was he gonna b a lazy gay peice of shit for if it wasnt simmons _

_ palom3m3 commented: idk, i thought he and the pink one had some chemistry!! _

_ AfroPuffPastry commented: oh, I wish! _

“Alright, I’m- Fuckers. I’m back. The whole gang is here, I guess. Bitters, don’t call people gay pieces of shit. That’s my job. Uh, Dick is here, he doesn’t have a mic, and he’s keeping it that- Oi! Hey!”

_ palom3m3 commented: oh my god hes on your lap _

“Hey, Palomo, we have a face cam. They see that he’s on my lap. Everyone watching can see that. Good to see that you haven’t changed. Hey, is Tucker watching? What username is he using today. I swear, if it’s- Oh, there he is.”

_ aliendilf commented: hey Grif check your tipbox _

“You fucking piece of shit. I’m not reading your username. I'm not- I'm. Fuck you. Go fuck yourself. Thanks to aliendilf for the hundred bucks. I'm gonna make sure Dick buys something gay with it.”

_ Cyborg-Revolution commented: What constitutes “something gay”? Sex toys? Rainbow backpacks? _

“You're sitting on my lap! You piece of shit! Don’t comment on my streams while you're on my lap! Alright, banned, I am blocking you from my stream as we speak and I’m kicking you out, sleeping on the couch, whole nine yards. Fuck outta here.”

_ goodbi commented: its ok simmons you can sleep on the couch w/ me _

“Fuck you both! Stream over, done. Finished. You've all learned more than enough about me. Awful. No more streams are coming out ever, I'm closing my channel forever.”

_ 2ndLady commented: Aw, Grif! Just think of how much the people of Chorus appreciate these streams _

_ David S. commented: …Carolina? _

_ 2ndLady commented: Shit _

_ 2ndLady commented: This isn’t Carolina _

_ 2ndLady commented: No this is definitely Doctor Grey  _

_ 2ndLady commented: I have to go _

_ 2ndLady commented: Bye Wash _

_ palom3m3 commented: OH SHIT THATS WASH???????? _

“Stream over. Stream over!”

* * *

 

“Well, now what’re you gonna do for the next three hours?”

Grif stuck his tongue out and licked over the side of his husband’s face, making him shriek and nearly topple off the chair. Revenge.    
“I was going to do  _ that  _ until you riled up the chat! You fuckers. Both of you. You’re the absolute worst.”

Simmons scrubbed at his face and grumbled, headbutting Grif in the shoulder. Grif just brushed a hand through his hair, trying to shake his headphones off of his head. It wasn’t working, but he wouldn’t admit defeat, not to headphones. He started to feel lightheaded, but Simmons apparently took pity on him, pulling the headphones off and plunking them down on his desk. He brushed his hands through Grif’s hair, fiddling with the ponytail holder and tugging it out.   
“C’mon. You should pay attention to me. I’m dying, Dex. I need attention or I will wither away and die.”

“What, did your therapist say that?”

_ Ow. _ Always with the hair-pulling. Grif made a face over at his husband, splayed a hand across his belly. Hey, that was unusually soft for a stomach. He wiggled his fingers under Simmon’s shirt to brush his knuckles across the skin. Alright. He’d relent and pay attention to his big dumb husband. Simmons hummed, shifted on Grif’s lap and flopped an arm over his shoulders.

“What should we do, Dick? You’re the boss.”

“I like that. You should put me in charge more often. I’m the boss! Do what I say! Yeah, that’s good, I like it.”

“You slut. Make a decision.”

“I vote we go for a walk on the beach. We haven't been in a long time, and really, how have you not capitalized on the whole “romantic couples’ walks on the beach” thing? It takes no planning and I'm a sucker. You know that.”

Epsilon poked his head up from behind the couch, almost vaulting over the back to get a word in. That little fucker really, really wanted his opinion about things to be heard. Old habits die hard. 

“You don't understand, you have to walk on the beach, right now, absolutely. Get out of this house and do something. At this point I don't even care if you take me with, you need to leave the house or you will die.”

Simmons furrowed his eyebrows, looking between Grif and Epsilon. Grif had to agree with Simmons on that skeptical look. This sure was an outburst. An uncharacteristic one, at that. 

“...Do you want to come with?”

“Fuck no! Walking? On a  _ beach _ ? With sand and water and crabs and glass? I just got this body, I'm not gonna fuck it up by walking somewhere like a  _ beach _ .”

Well, he had a point. Grif wound an arm around his husband’s waist, kissing his cheek. They might as well, it would be some kind of bonding experience. Besides, Grif would never admit it, probably not even to himself, certainly not to anyone else, but he was as much of a hopeless romantic as anyone could be. Granted, there wasn't any romanticism to Hawaii for him, at least, but to Simmons- Oh, his stomach felt like a knot. He was horrible. Horrible and infatuated. If his sister could see him now, she would- Nevermind that, the important thing was that he was going to be able to go out and have a nice evening with his husband.

* * *

 

It took those dumbasses forever to get ready to leave. Epsilon was bouncing off the goddamn walls to be left alone, but they were just being slow and bitching about sunblock and doing God only knows what. An hour after the suggestion had been initially said, they finally walked out the door. Epsilon quickly jumped into Grif’s computer chair, rolling it up close to the desk so he could actually see the print on the screen. Damn his bad eyes, he'd need glasses eventually. Password, that was Grif's sister’s birthday, and he was in. Let's see. Let's pull up Skype, log in to Simmons’, search the directory, and-

Gotcha!

_ dicklord (Cyborg-Revolution) sent a request to Dave (s-for-strider). Hi, Dave! _

_ Dave shared their contact information.  _

_ dicklord: YOU PIECE OF SHIT _

_ Dave: What did I do now? _

_ dicklord: okay so you know how you had a younger sibling that ran away from home when they were like sixteen b/c of your dad and stepdad and all that you know _

_ Dave: Yes? _

_ dicklord: you colossal piece of shit _

_ Dave: What did I do now?! _

_ dicklord: THATS SIMMONS _

_ dicklord: SIMMONS IS YOUR LITTLE SIBLING _

_ dicklord: YOU HAVE THE SAME LAST NAME HOW DID YOU NOT NOTICE _

_ Dave: I'm pretty sure Simmons isn't related to me, I mean, I only have younger sisters.  _

_ dicklord: HE TRANSITIONED  _

_ Dave: Oh.  _

_ Dave: That… Doesn’t mean we’re related, though? Simmons is a pretty common last name.  _

_ dicklord: name one person with simmons as a surname that you arent related to _

_ Dave: That doesn't prove anything.  _

_ dicklord: youre both natural blondes _

_ Dave: Lots of people have blonde hair! _

_ dicklord: okay well shut up you look the same _

_ dicklord: you both had a shit dad that got locked up when you were fourteen and he was seven  _

_ dicklord: you have three younger siblings and simmons has three older ones _

_ dicklord: your stepdad was a hardass and thought ancient fuckin nuclear family values were the best way to raise kids _

_ dicklord: simmons brother put a kids head through a mirror and your youngest sibling got sent to therapy at six because they told a teacher they thought about killing their dad and thats how all that bullshit with prison got started _

_ Dave: Oh my god, you're right  _

_ Dave: Where is he now? _

_ Dave: Can I talk to him? _

_ dicklord: look hes out and im using his skype r/n _

_ dicklord: ill give you his cell or something or just the address _

_ dicklord: look i have a lot of plans so itd be best if you could just come visit at his wedding or something? i dont think he has any idea so just show up and ill say it was my idea and you can have a tearful reunion or something _

_ Dave: Always with the cryptic bullshit. _

_ Dave: I might not even go, just because you're being such a douche.  _

_ Dave: How would that fare, hm? _

_ dicklord: well i know you and i know youre going anyways so it doesnt matter how itd fare _

_ dicklord: jerk _

_ Dave: …Shut up. When's the wedding.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> l ook i love unlikely sibling pairings. i love them. i really do. it's silly and dumb but i love them  
> epsilon is a scheming little fucker i mean honestly  
> (wash's skype is like ten years old n he used to be homestuck trash look don't question me i write this shit)  
> at least grif and simmons got a nice walk out of it grif probably got a crab to snip his cane and hang onto it  
> comments and criticism is always nice!! i lvoe that stuff man i love it  
> grif-exe is my tumblr! i am always down to talk about stuff


	14. Reunion 2.0

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epsilon meddles, Grif obfuscates, Simmons cries a little.

Agent Washington- 

No, that wasn’t right. 

David Simmons had always liked his family. More, he had pitied his mother, and become incredibly protective of his younger siblings, but he had liked them. And, well, he hadn’t been close to his family for a while, so this had to be some kind of opportunity for redemption, right? Long-estranged younger brother, who he had somehow not recognized for multiple years- This was the kind of story cheesy novels could only hope to tell. This was his opportunity, his chance to properly go about and apologize, his own Eat Pray Love-

That train of thought had gone on too long, and was thoroughly embarrassing him now. Okay. Focus. First stop. He’d cajoled one of the people in charge of ex-military arrangements into telling him where Simmons lived, claiming- No, not claiming. They were related and hadn’t seen each other in years, so this was  _ really  _ important. He was eventually given his location and a little folder on developments that had occurred after everyone had been separated. Oh, he’d gotten married! Wash had siblings-in-law now. Maybe even a niece or nephew? Wait, no. Simmons ended up marrying Grif, which was obvious when Wash looked up the address and saw his name listed as owner of the house. That pushed nieces and nephews off the table. Siblings in law? Wasn't there that yellow lunatic back in Blood Gulch? Jesus Christ. Okay. Wash packed two bags, deposited a paycheck, put in a request for transport, and waited for  _ seven hours  _ at a cramped airport. Why was he doing this? He could just Skype his little brother. 

Holy shit. Little brother. Washington had a little brother. That was a thought. He bounced his leg while he sat, nails digging into the sides of his phone case as he tried to calm himself. It was a nice thought. A little brother. He would be… What, a few years off from thirty? Wash was thirty-five now, seven years between them, it wasn't yet Simmons’ birthday- twenty-seven. Simmons was twenty-seven. Alright. What else. What else did Wash know about his little brother. Jeez, not much. They'd have to catch up. 

Wash hummed and bounced his legs. This was going to be a good reunion.

* * *

 

Grif woke up, and was immediately overwhelmed by the urge to shoot something. Not because he was angry, no, he just realized hey, there was a gun five feet away from him. He could roll over and load it and shoot something. Maybe his leg, maybe his husband or his roommate. This was a bad day. He should definitely not do anything, at all, because he would be completely anxious and would probably end up getting stuck on his compulsions and would scrub his hands raw or blow a fuse fiddling with electronics. He wasn't ready to deal with this today.

Simmons poked his head through the door, adjusting his glasses and staring into the room. 

“Hey. It's kinda late, you okay? I mean, you always sleep late, but you said you were going to try and get some songs submitted to your commissioners today, so-”

“‘S some really bad bullshit. Y’know where my meds are?”

Simmons nudged the door closed with his foot, crossing the room quickly. He sat down on the bed, pulled back the blankets a little to look at Grif’s face. Gross. Grif was all fuzzy and his eyes were red and he was all sweaty. He didn't want anybody looking at him yet. His husband leaned down to brush his hair back and kiss the side of his forehead. As it turned out, his meds were in Simmons’ nightstand drawer, so thank God Simmons was there to get them. Grif couldn't actually  _ see  _ that pistol without his intrusive thoughts getting exponentially worse. Two pills, dry-swallow, then wait until they kicked in. One one-thousand, two one-thousand-

“When you feel better I'll help you get showered. You're smelly.”

“And you're an ass.”

“Oh, undeniably. But you'll feel better when you're not covered in- Whatever you excrete.”

“Sweat. It's sweat. Some of us are still human.”

“Yeah, thanks to  _ me. _ These robot parts would be yours if it weren't for me, your totally self-sacrificing and selfless husband, who is also incredibly handsome and sexually attractive.”

Grif wrinkled his nose at Simmons, reaching up to squish his hand against his face. 

“Narcissist. I'll give you handsome and attractive, at least. You're kinda selfish.”

“Again, undeniable. C’mon, time to get your nasty little body in the shower.”

“‘I'm not little. I’m like… The size of two of you.”

“Yeah, but two of me sideways. I'm still taller, therefore, you're little.”

“My dick is bigger.”

“Which dick, penis-wise or husband-wise?”

“Um. Yes.”

Simmons just sighed, tugging Grif out of bed and looping his arms around his shoulders. How rude. Grif could walk- No, no, those legs were not cooperating. He'd let Simmons half-drag him. Stupid legs. Grif ended up sitting on the edge of the tub, busying himself with pulling his shirt over his head as Simmons untucked the towel from around the mirror. Why was he doing that. That was not a good idea. 

“Hurry it up, dummy, I don't want to have to undress you.”

Simmons’ face, meet Grif’s dirty sock. What a jerk. He slid backwards into the tub when he was fully stripped, crumpled up and curled in on himself with his feet poking out against the shower curtain. He was the pinnacle of human evolution, kept alive by the greatest of medical advancements. He was fat and floppy and nude and draped the wrong way in a bathtub. Simmons huffed through his nose, poking at Grif through the curtain. 

“That’s not how you shower, quit it. Shower like a normal person.”

“Just try and stop me.”

“Don't make me come in there.”

“You won’t stop meeeeee.”

Grif rested his head back against the wall, closing his eyes and humming to himself. He could hear clothes hitting the floor, and the shower curtain was pulled back. Arms wrapped around Grif’s torso, pulling him up to stand-

“Leech. You owe me after this.”

“You love me.”

“Yeah, well. We’ll see about that.”

He managed to relax over the course of a half hour in the shower- Rhymes! Grif really was a born musician. A half hour in the shower, a half hour in the shower- Simmons had dug cold fingers into Grif’s ribs once he actually started singing. His creative energy was being stifled. He complained to his husband about this when they extracted themselves from the shower, Grif bent over to wrap a towel around his hair, Simmons taking advantage of the position to give him a little pat on the butt. It was a comfortable kind of complaining, though, something relaxed and easy to fall into. Then Simmons moved out of the way, nudging Grif in front of the sink with an order to sanitize his gross piercings.

Dammit, Simmons, there was a  _ reason _ he covered up the mirror! Gross. Gross, gross, gross. He raised a palm to cover the thick scar on his left shoulder, don't scratch at it don't scratch at it don't- God, he looked like a monster. A fat, ugly, scarred-up Frankenstein’s monster. Look at his stupid self. Too many tattoos and he had a piercing and he was trying too hard, and it failed, look at his stupid fucking- Simmons slid behind him, arms wrapped up tightly around Grif’s stomach.  _ Hah _ , fuckin’ miracle he could even reach-

“You know I can tell when you get to thinking like that. Come on. You're not ugly.”

“Yeah, sure, I'm beautiful, you're right. That's why you're so-” 

Clam it up, Dexter. Simmons frowned, pressing his forehead against the side of Grif’s head. His nose was squished into Grif’s cheek, and he brushed his knuckles over the pale brown stretchmarks on his belly. 

“I'm so what?”

“Nothing. You're right. I'm the pinnacle of human attractiveness. Everyone should be trying to suck my brain out of my dick. Happy?”

“I didn't say  _ that _ , I said you're not ugly. I mean, you're soft and warm, and you're basically pocket-size. Makes you a good little spoon.”

“More like a shovel.”

“Wrong. And you look good a couple days after you shave, when you're all scruffy. It gives you a- I don't know. It's a look. You've got a look. You're kinda handsome.”

Yeah, maybe. Simmons could think that all he wants. Grif was just going to look away and rest his hands on his husband’s, looking for the towel to cover the mirror again. Just because  _ Simmons _ got used to looking at himself by using aversion-therapy type bullshit didn't mean Grif would. He'd be dead in his grave before he found himself handsome.

* * *

 

Today was the  _ day _ . Today was the day. Epsilon had gotten a text from Wash that said he'd be showing up today, and Epsilon had just replied back with the address, saying he'd pay for cab fare or whatever when he got there. Today was the day and nothing would stand in Epsilon’s way. He was the Reunionater. Bringing estranged siblings back together. He made an excuse to stay out of the house, setting up a beach chair in the front lawn and watching the road for Wash. He ended up dozing off, despite how excited the others were to see Wash again, and woke up with burnt cheeks and Washington hovering over him. 

“Is this where they make you sleep? You should report this to someone.”

Epsilon scrambled, sitting up and getting to his feet and bashing his head against the back of his chair and then falling into the dirt. 

“Wash! Dude, Wash, no, I was waiting for you and I fell asleep, and- Okay, no, that’s. I didn’t break the chair, it was already-”

He fumbled, righted his chair, which was most definitely broken but had probably always been like that, so not his fault at all. Wash watched with a confused look on his face, tan eyebrows knitted together. Always so judgemental. Wash could never just let somebody live. 

“Okay, yeah, it’s fucked. Um. Anyways. Come on, come in, come on I need you to meet your brother. There’s no chance he’s gonna like, freak out and try to kill you, right? I mean, it’s a valid- A valid concern, given everything.”

“Probably not?”

“That’s comforting.”

Wash followed behind Epsilon, bags on his shoulders. It was weird, being around him again. Epsilon knew things about Wash that nobody except Wash knew, and no, he’d never talk about them, but that kind of thing left its marks on people. Wash stuck a foot out and kicked at one of the bushes, jostling a string of dim Christmas lights. The party of two stopped at the door.

“Look, if either one of them is like, half-naked, it’s not my fault. Don’t scream if they are, either. That’s just mean.”

“Epsilon, you’re stalling.”

“I’m not stalling! I want to savor the moment. Do you have everything? Packed, and- Have you eaten? Shit, did you bring a gift.”

Wash pushed past Epsilon and through the front door. Fuckin’ rude. Epsilon slid inside a step behind him, situating himself to where he could watch everything unfold. Grif was in the corner, sitting at his desk and marking sheet music as he hummed into his headset. He glanced up, waved at Epsilon and squinted at Wash. Epsilon had to mouth that it was okay, not to worry. Just wait and see. That got a colossal shrug from Grif. Jackass. Simmons was in the kitchen, busying himself with either dinner or stress-burning the house down. He wasn’t a very good baker. When he heard the door open, he stuck his head out of the doorway to peer into the hall. 

“Epsilon? You back from-”

Whatever he was saying got stuck in his throat and came out as more of a balloon-squeak. His eyes went wide, and something in the kitchen fell onto the floor. Oh no. He’d dropped a pan. This was bad. Wash passed a hand through his hair, turning and staring at Simmons as he emerged from the kitchen. Grif was turned around fully, now, headset pulled off and hanging around his neck as he watched. There were a good two seconds of silence as Simmons and Wash stared at each other, fidgeting and standing there. 

Wash bolted across the room and hugged Simmons tightly- No, that wasn’t right. He tackled him and Simmons spun him around using the momentum, Simmons was either sobbing or laughing, Wash was definitely laughing, they were smiling and Wash was being held a good four inches off the floor. When he was set down again, his hands flew up to Simmons’ face, pushing the mop of blonde hair out of his eyes.

“Ducky, when did you get so  _ tall _ ?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :>  
> so how're y'all feelin, you good? all good? happy? good  
> (simmons changed his name to richard bc he never really forgot that his nickname was duck for the first sixteen damn years of his life. dick -> duck)  
> comments and critiques are so appreciated!


	15. Recalcitrant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif, Simmons, Wash, and Epsilon have a nice morning. Donut finds something concerning. Lopez questions humanity.

Eventually, Grif was going to have to call the UNSC and tell them to stop giving out his address. He wasn't necessarily upset that Wash came for a surprise visit, no, that wasn't it. Well. That was a lie. That was it. It wasn't fair, though, Simmons getting able to reunite with his brother and- It just wasn't fair. He didn't like his routines being fucked up, and Wash was the king of fucking routines. Grif just wasn't used to him yet! It'd be a big adjustment. But he was trying, he really was, and Simmons didn't seem to get that. Jeez, what did he have to do to show him?

Now that his entire routine was thrown off, he was lying awake at six-thirty in the morning, someone’s cold feet pressed against Grif’s back as Epsilon curled up against Simmons. Great. Even _Epsilon_ was taking over places he should be. The house was creaking on its foundation, rain pattering against the roof. Grif got out of bed, rummaging across his nightstand to find his pain medication, and hobbled his way over to the door. He'd let his bedmates sleep for now. Let them cuddle and stay warm and whatever. He didn’t need that. He’d just go sit outside.

He opened the back door, and was greeted by a gust of cold, wet wind blowing debris into his face. Well, that was fun while it lasted. He peeled a wet leaf off his face and limped back into his bedroom to gently place it on his sleeping husband’s face. Revenge was his. Maybe he’d inhale it. What else was there to do in this house. Nobody would be online to watch him stream, he was in no state to write, cooking was- yeah, no cooking. Video games? Video games.

Except that didn’t work, because when he went to sit down, he sat down whole-assedly onto a sleeping Agent Washington’s legs. Today just wasn’t going to be his day.

“Jesus Christ- Grif, is- _why?”_

“Don’t “why” me, I wasn’t expecting you to be there. Move over.”

“I was asleep!”

“And now you’re not. Move over.”

“Can I at least use a guest room-”

“Don’t have one.”

“What about your sister’s-”

“If you so much as look at the room, I will chop you up and feed you to sharks.”

Wash went quiet, and wormed his legs out from under Grif. Finally. He wrapped a sheet around his shoulders and stared. God. Grif hated when people stared at him. He got it, he looked like Frankenstein. No need to make it obvious. He traced his thumbnail over one of the buttons, clicking it and pulling it up slightly to set it back into place. Click. Snap.

“Why’re you in a mood?”

“I’m not. This is how I normally act.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Right, cause we’re such good friends and you know exactly what I’m like normally. Forgot about that.”

“You- You’ve got a grudge against me too?”

Grif sighed, leaning back further against the couch and drawing his legs up. Click. Snap. Click. Snap.

“No. I’m in a mood.”

Grif wasn’t really one to hold grudges. Wash had done his time and worked to help them, yadda yadda- Whatever. That entire family had deep-rooted psychological issues, Grif wasn’t going to hold it against them. Some things fucked you up for life, he knew that better than most, so. Whatever. Grif would just let all the shit Wash had done slide. That was fine. Wash curled up in his blanket, pressing his foot into Grif’s leg.

“So, do you want me to help you make breakfast, or- Or something?”

“Come on, I'm a big brother, I know what you’re trying to do-”

Wash shrugged, leaning over to sock a fist into Grif’s arm. It was friendly, though. Grif could appreciate the attempt. Now that they're brothers in law, he guessed it would be a good idea to get some kind of familiarity with him. Besides, Wash seemed like a decent guy. When he wasn't hunting them down with a vengeance.

“Come on. I'm older than you, that makes me the biggest brother. Besides, you get to surprise your husband with breakfast in bed. Or something. That'll get you brownie points.”

“You just want to eat.”

“I do! You woke me up and now I'm starving. You owe me.”

Grif snorted, pushing himself up to make his way to the kitchen.

“You're such a bad guest. D’you want pancakes or ham and eggs?”

* * *

 

Epsilon wasn't completely comfortable with Wash. Or, rather, he wasn't sure Wash was completely comfortable with him. And that was perfectly okay, Epsilon had tried to kill himself when he was implanted in Wash’s head and all. Epsilon wouldn’t have been comfortable with anyone if they’d done that either. So when he was woken up by Grif, Wash, and Simmons all laying out a spread of what smelled like delicious pancakes, it was totally acceptable for him to scream, and maybe come close to peeing his pants just a little. It was terrifying. He was awake and surprised and he was not ready for any of this. Simmons stared at him, cyborg arm detached and draped over the nightstand.

“You, uh. You okay there, Epsilon?”

“Do you wanna give a guy a little warning before you throw food all on his bed?”

Wash sat up slightly, resting his weight on his elbows and raising an eyebrow over at Epsilon. No need to look so smug. Jackass.

“We tried. You were really out of it.”

Grif piped up through a mouthful of fruit after Wash spoke, but unfortunately, it was incomprehensible. Oh, well. Epsilon just snagged a plate from in front of him.

“Wash, how long are you stayin’?”

“You- You guys do realize I have a first name. And a last one. I'm not really, uh. An active agent... It's not a rank. You can call me David. Or Dave. Or Simmons!”

“Yeah, but we already have a Simmons. And David is just- Ehhh. Besides, we’re used to Wash at this point.”

“Epsilon, please. _Anyways_ , I'll probably only be staying a few days. I couldn't wear out my welcome. Oh, Donut mentioned a wedding? Or Caboose did. One of them. I'll probably come back for that, anyways. What else- Oh, I'll be flying up to Iowa to see Donut and Caboose and Sarge, just because.”

Wash passed a hand through his hair, glancing over at the window. Jeez, it was coming down in buckets. Was it a hurricane or something? Thunder rattled the house, made Simmons jump and Gamma try to shove himself further back from the front. He didn't like thunder. Everyone went quiet for a second after the thunder, then Wash spoke up again.

“Since I'm planetside again, I figured I'd just do my rounds. I still have no idea where Tucker is. Did he get his old job back?”

Grif nodded, falling back on the bed.

“Yeah, he's traveling. Last I heard he was a couple solar systems removed. Making bank too, it's fucking ridiculous.”

“...Okay. Anyways, I figured I'd go around on this planet, then fly to Chorus and check on them. No, not- Not check on them, that makes it seem like they can't handle themselves. You know what I mean.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, listening to the wind shift the house. Epsilon picked over the other’s plates, on one occasion leaning over to steal an apple slice from Simmons’ hand. Wash laughed, and Simmons dumped powdered sugar on his shirt. It was sort of familiar, in a sense that they'd all been in this sort of setting, somewhere that was happy and warm and comforting despite everything. It was nice.

* * *

 

Donut was enjoying the summer. They had been working hard to get their fruit trees to grow successfully, and this was the first year they'd managed to get more than a handful of sour cherries, and the pears- It was amazing. They were so proud of themselves. And Caboose, of course! He'd been very helpful when it came to harvesting and pruning and the like. The only downside was, well- There was _too_ much! They were only two people, and two people couldn't eat cratefuls of produce. Really, on top of the fruits, there were so many vegetables they'd harvested, not to mention eggs- ! How the two of them did this with night jobs, no one knew. Not even Donut. They were surprised they were still alive at this point.

Really, the only solution was packing up a box and driving it down to Sarge. He could make use of this, and even if he wasn't going to eat it, he could always resell it! Donut knew he wasn't really working on anything. He was a little old for that, now. Sure, he _said_ he wasn't, but you couldn't lie to this pastry.

So Donut packed up a box, padded it with newspapers, stuck it in the bed of their pickup- farms had to have a pickup, as much as they loved their little hybrid, sometimes you needed something with a little more punch- and drove down the highway with Caboose slumped in the passenger seat. The windows were rolled down, and Donut rested an elbow outside the window as they drove. It was a good day.

“‘Boose, how do you like road trips?”

“I think they are better than flying. Humans were not supposed to fly. Also planes are gross and smell bad, and there's too many people. And babies. I do not want to fly with babies.”

Donut nodded, humming to themselves. For once, conversation didn't feel right. Weird. The lapsed into silence for the rest of the trip. As Donut pulled into the gravel driveway, something felt a little off. Hm. They nudged Caboose to carry the crate of food inside, testing the backdoor to see if it was locked. It wasn't. That was even more off. Okay. Okay. The lights were off, and at six o’clock it was shadowy indoors.

“Loooopez! Hey, Lopez! Um, door’s unlocked! We’re coming in!”

“Why are we yelling! I like yelling!”

“No, Caboose. Lopez? Lopez!”

No answer. Donut waved at Caboose to set the box down on the counter and turned on the lights. Were they out? Maybe they'd gone to a movie or dinner. Still, it's always a good idea to check. Donut walked through the kitchen, checked the bedrooms, bathrooms, living room- No one. Basement? Maybe they were in the basement. Donut creeped down the stairs, switching on the lights and waving a hand through the air to clear the dust in front of them.

“Lopez? You guys down here?”

They pushed open the door to the workshop.

Lopez was sprawled over the table, chest opened up and wires attached to outlets suspended from the ceiling. Metal playing was spread across the table, brown and dented. Maintenance. That was fine. He was a robot, no big deal. Now where was-

“Sarge!”

That was worse. That was infinitely worse. Sarge was on the floor, one prosthetic leg detached, the other partially pulled off and throwing off sparks into the air. His head was dipped back and rested against the leg of the table, eyes unfocused and staring blankly at the ceiling. He was deathly pale. Donut ran back up the stairs, smacking into Caboose and sending him downstairs to gather Sarge up and put him in the truck. This was bad. This was very bad. Donut followed Caboose, hands shaking, head pounding. Lopez was a standard kit, those had directions, they'd just reassemble him and he'd know what was going on. They'd- No, they didn't know how to do that, they'd have to call somebody, a mechanic, a specialist- Okay. Oh God.

This was an awful day.

* * *

 

_… Rebooting… Rebooting… Rebooting…_

_Now online._

_Program L-0932.scr now running. Welcome back._

Lopez woke up with a specialist elbow-deep in his torso, and Donut pacing and wiping their eyes in his peripheral vision. Immediately, he knew something was wrong. They shouldn’t be here. He had been trying to convince Sarge to call a specialist- This exact one, actually- to do his maintenance, and Sarge had said-

_You big metal baby, I’m the best there is! I’m not senile yet, get your keister on that table._

Lopez should have stopped him. That was what he’d been tasked to do. That was the only reason he’d been allowed to get a new body and operate outside the military. He was the one who had to keep Sarge out of trouble. He’d failed. He wasn’t a person, under law. His only purpose had been to keep Sarge safe. If Sarge died...

What was going to happen to him now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :>  
> :>c  
> this is the beginning of the end for a good many things


	16. Raisonneur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything goes all to shit.

Donut sat in the waiting room. They'd already gotten their calls out of the way, informing everyone that yeah, Sarge probably wasn't going to make it any longer than a few weeks, and goodbyes were probably in order. The doctor had said that it was just his old age on top of the electrical surges his prosthetics had been throwing off. These things happened, she'd said, and it was best to get all his affairs in order soon. 

Donut didn't know what to do. They sat in the waiting room. Caboose had carried Sarge out of the house and drove him to the nearest hospital, while Donut had stayed back to call someone to reassemble Lopez. They'd been so nervous, so scared, had to go outside to take a lap around the house to calm down. It had taken too long to put Lopez back together, they were so scared that Sarge had done some kind of permanent damage. They'd cried when he was reactivated, clinging to his chassis and sobbing and explaining the situation. Lopez had gotten up and taken them to the hospital, since he was the one who could check Sarge in and explain the situation. 

Donut was alone. They sat in the waiting room. Caboose was asleep in the truck and Simmons and Grif and Epsilon wouldn't be here for another three days and Wash was here but he had gone to talk to the doctors and see if he could help. They'd determined, from what little Donut heard, that it would be best to keep Sarge calm and unstressed, best to keep him happy for his last few weeks. Wash said that was, to quote what Donut had heard, “highly unlikely”. They paced in the waiting room, chewing on their nails as they waited. Caboose was asleep in the truck. Simmons and Grif and Epsilon were a few days out. Wash was here. Sarge was dying. Lopez was being held, impounded, essentially. Oh, Lopez. Donut couldn't fix any of this, could they? They wished someone was around to talk to. They'd go out to nap with Caboose in the car, but there was absolutely no way they'd be anything but an anxious wreck. This was the worst. 

Donut sat in the waiting room.

* * *

 

Caboose was sleeping in the bed of the truck again. He'd brought Donut home once in the past three days, hauled them into the shower and tried to calm them down. Washington was there with Sarge, and he would let them know if anything happened. Caboose had tried to soothe them, telling them over and over that it would be okay. It hadn’t worked. Donut wasn’t going to be anywhere close to happy until the others were here, and Caboose could understand that. If Church was dying, he’d- No, he wouldn’t want Tucker there, Tucker would ruin it, but Caboose could understand. So, Caboose tossed and turned for a while. It was hard. He needed Church to come soon so he’d feel better. 

Church would know what to do, probably.

* * *

 

Epsilon had no idea what he was doing. 

Simmons was berating the receptionist, demanding he lead them all to Sarge’s room and no, it didn’t matter that it was three A.M., he was practically family and if he wasn’t in there in ten minutes he was going to  _ literally _ blow his brains out on that shiny white receptionist’s desk. Sure, Simmons was sobbing and most of his threats were completely incomprehensible, but they were threats nonetheless. Epsilon had to loop his arm around Simmons’ waist and drag him off to the parking lot, sitting him down in Donut’s truck and plopping down squarely in his lap. He wound his arms tightly around Simmons’ torso. Pressure was good for Simmons. He’d said that a lot, that if he was freaking out, for a reason that wasn't “bed intruder” or “tactile overload”, the proper response was to get him alone and squish him half to death. He could feel Simmons breath skipping.

“Simmons, hey, hey. Hey, buddy. I need you to breathe. Simmons. You're freaking out, Simmons.”

“Gee, thanks. Thanks. A plus on your panic attack coping techniques.”

“I'm not your fucking therapist, dude. Look, breathe with me. Okay? In-”

Epsilon talked to him, hands pressed to the back of his chest, counting inhales and exhales. Jeez, maybe he'd picked up bad habits from Grif. He could see the green glow of Simmons’ heart monitor through his shirt, watched it slow down and go back to a normal rate. Simmons balled his hands into Epsilon’s jacket, face pressed into his hair. 

“You okay? You want to stay here for like, ten more minutes? Get all composed, and- Then say your goodbyes.”

“I- No. No, I don't. I'm so tired. Epsilon, I really, really need to sleep.”

What harm could sleeping through the night do?

* * *

 

Grif was going to settle this. He was going to go in there, and by God, he was going to settle this. He was going to go in there, look Sarge in the eye, sit down, and deliver a moving, philosophical speech about how Sarge was a piece of shit and how he should apologize to Grif for being such a piece of shit. Sarge would apologize, and Grif, who never holds grudges, normally, would be able to sleep at night. That was what was going to happen. That was what was supposed to happen. 

Grif paced in the waiting room, walking the length of it back and forth. He watched Wash sprawl out across three chairs, watched Donut fiddle with the metal plating on the side of their head. He paced, counting down the seconds until visiting hours started again and he could go in and talk to Sarge. His cane thumped on the floor, rubber knob squeaking against linoleum. He paced until his knees gave out, and when they did, he sat next to Donut and tapped his cane on the arm of the chair. 

He must've fallen asleep, because he jerked awake at some point and whipped his head around, staring at the clock. Seven forty-six in the morning. Visiting hours would start in fourteen minutes. Grif patted through his pockets, trying to find something that he could bribe the receptionist with. All he had was a packet of cigarettes, his lighter, a wallet with three dollars and twenty-three cents, and a chewed eraser that at one point looked like a raincloud. He could also just wait it out, but what was the point? 

Grif ended up waiting it out, simply because he didn't feel like accosting the poor receptionist again. So, at eight, he got up, to the dismay of his knees, and signed himself in to go see Sarge. The receptionist mumbled Sarge’s name, saying something that Grif couldn't make out and sounded halfway like “roses”. He just nodded and made his way to the room Sarge was in. Okay. Put on the proper expression for this, concern would do well, push back the idea of smothering Sarge in his sleep, and-

“Grif? What th- The hell are you doin’ here?”

Dammit. 

“Hey, Sarge. So. I think you're dying.”

“Stop the fuckin’ presses.”

Grif inhaled once, sighing through his nose. He made his way halfway over to one of the chairs in the room before his knee wobbled and gave out, making him curse and drag it until he could sit down. He kept a hand squeezed tightly at his thigh, trying to massage the pain out. Sarge looked- Well, Sarge looked like shit. His prosthetic legs were rested on the table across the room, disconnected and pulled apart at the joints to reveal frayed wires. It left him looking very, very small in his bed, since half of his body was, essentially, missing. Sarge’s hands were shaking and almost transparent, spindly and stuck full of needles. Grif swallowed, hard. 

“Sir- Sarge, I know you don't like me. And I don't like you. It, we really, really just don't like each other. And I respect that! I'm happy not liking you. But. But…”

He trailed off, and Sarge pushed himself up onto his elbow to stare over at Grif. 

“Spit it out, dirtbag. I'm dyin’ over here and you're hemming and hawin’ around what you're trying to-”

“I want an apology.”

Sarge blinked at Grif, eyebrows furrowing. 

“What for?”

Grif leaned back in his chair, a little taken aback. This was supposed to be easy. Sarge was supposed to know what he did, then just. Apologize. He'd apologize and justify it with saying that it was for Grif’s own good, whatever, and Grif could live with that. But Sarge didn't think he'd done anything wrong. Or he didn't remember? He was old…

“For- You know. All the shooting. The insults, you- Sarge, you've almost killed me like, at least twenty times. You've directly almost killed me, by your own hand, at  _ least  _ twenty times. That's not even mentioning all the times you, you indirectly put my life into danger, or put Simmons up to the task-”

His voice cracked on his husband’s name. Grif was someone who didn't try to hold grudges. He tried really, really hard. He knew about Simmons needing that approval and validation and- Grif didn't hold it against Simmons. He held it against Sarge. 

“Come on, that was for your own good. I mean, what kinda man signs up for the army and then acts like a lazy good-fer-nothin’-”

“I was drafted! I didn't want to sign up! You- Sarge, you knew that! You knew I didn't want to be there, it- All it would've taken for me to get out of your hair was just, you could've- you could've gotten me out of that shithole! And, and instead of doing that, you tried to kill me? You used other people, you used  _ Dick  _ to try and kill me?”

Grif was shaking, he could feel it. He dug his nails into his knee, tried to calm himself down. One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand- One one thousand two one thousand-

“Grif, I coulda- What about Simmons? I know,” Sarge stopped, kneading a frail hand against his collarbone and screwing up his face, “I know you wouldn't have wanted to leave Simmons behind, much as that boy deserves better-”

“Wh- Who gives a fuck about Simmons! If you would've just- If you'd court-martialed me, fuck, I would've taken a dishonorable discharge, I- I- I wouldn't care about Simmons! The only reason I even stuck around him was because he was the only one I could have a fucking conversation with! You, you- My sister would be alive if you'd pulled your head out of your ass and thought for one  _ second _ about what I wanted, just, once, then-”

“Quit your bellyaching, you think you're the only one ‘round here who's lost sisters?”

Grif stood up quickly, chair shoved back. His hip, knees, back, all shrieked in protest, but he leaned over and jabbed a finger into Sarge’s shoulder. His eyes were wet at this point, despite him fighting back tears as best he could. He was an emotional man. Sarge glared up at him. 

“God, for  _ once _ , can I fucking complain and someone listen to me? It's a valid point! She'd be alive if you'd kicked me out! But you're too, you're too much of a self-absorbed, stupid, high off your own piss fucking sadist for you to fig- Figure- Sarge?”

Sarge’s eyes had glazed over, one thin brown hand pressed over the front his hospital gown. Grif hadn't noticed the heart monitor he was attached to, hadn't heard the soft beeps over his own voice, but- Well, he heard it now. It had stuttered, started blaring loudly, so loudly, alerted the nurse a room over who called for a crash cart and looped an arm around Grif’s. She dragged him out of the room, closing the door behind her. 

That was bad.

* * *

 

Simmons woke up at seven fifty-two, and stretched. He kneaded his hands over Epsilon’s back, sighing contentedly. His watch beeped, letting him know that it was ten minutes to the visiting hours. He must've hit snooze at some point. Damn. He arched his back, heard a pop from the few remaining vertebrae that could still pop. Epsilon was curled up on his lap, breathing softly. His hair was smushed against Simmons’ chest. This was peaceful. He woke Epsilon up, shaking him gently so he could drag him inside and see Sarge. 

Simmons passed a hand through his hair and stretched, approaching the receptionist. Now that he was calmed down, it was much easier to get in to see Sarge. He didn't make it that far, only about halfway down the hall before he ran into a nurse, who was dragging a shellshocked Grif by his arm. She pushed past Simmons, who was now thoroughly confused. He ended up only getting a glance into Sarge’s room. Screaming heart monitor, multiple nurses bustling around him-

Oh. 

He whirled around to find Grif, breaking into a run down the hall. He managed to slide up next to Grif, yanking him out of the grip of the nurse. 

“What the hell happened?”

Grif shook his head, eyes wide and wet with tears. He opened his mouth, making a strained little noise in the back of his throat. He couldn't talk, obviously. But he wouldn't be this upset unless-

“Is Sarge dead?”

That set Grif off, got him nodding, mouth making shapes but no sounds. Simmons didn't process it. He couldn't. Sarge was dead. Sarge was dead and Grif was the last person to see him alive, Sarge- Grif didn't even tell him that Sarge was that, that close to- Grif had stressed him out. Grif had gone in there and complained and Grif had stressed Sarge out and Grif had done something and Grif had. Grif had basically killed Sarge. Simmons didn't get to say goodbye. Simmons hadn't gotten to say goodbye. 

“I, Dex- What the fuck did you do? Wh-”

“I didn't! I didn't do anything! Jesus, he- I wanted to talk to him, I wanted an apology and he didn't, he didn't apologize and I just, I got upset, I didn't kill him, he had a heart attack or something- This- This isn't my fault!”

Simmons knew, deep down, that Grif thought it was his fault. He knew that blaming Grif would make this worse. He knew it was hell, knew Grif had been hurt by Sarge, knew that Grif deserved an apology. Simmons knew this. Simmons was also so blindingly angry that he could feel blood rushing in his ears. He stuck a metal finger into the center of Grif’s chest, jabbed him sharply. 

“You didn't fucking think to call me first? You thought oh, it's fine, I'll just visit Sarge on his own and  _ literally kill him! _ There's no way this could go wrong! Dexter Grif, fucking one man army, going to go in there and demand an apology out of someone who wasn't going to give him one! Without calling, I don't know, his goddamn  _ husband _ , so maybe somebody who actually  _ matters _ could get something out of Sarge-”

Grif curled his hand around Simmons’ wrist, shoving his hand away from his chest. This was Grif’s fault. Simmons wasn't going to be dissuaded any time soon. He was angry and he was betrayed and alone and he had no one, Sarge, Sarge was dead. Grif spoke up, voice thick. 

“Someone who actually matters. Someone who matters! You're right, Dick. You're right. Let's make this about you. You've always been the only one that mattered, why would all the shit that bastard put me through matter! You're right. Please, go ahead. Blame me for all your fucking problems that you deflect onto Sarge. Please. We all know I'm a punching bag, go ahead!”

Grif talked, punctuated his words with twists of Simmons’ wrist, nails digging into the seams. He looked up at Simmons, looked Simmons right in the eyes as he tugged at his wrist again. He was, he was trying to provoke Simmons, pulling the metal digit pressed against his chest harder into himself. 

“Go ahead! Come on, you're so far up that bastard’s ass, you'd do anything for him! He's dead now, sure, but you're practically his kid, he's like the dad you never had, one that cared about you or some bullshit, come  _ on! _ What could he have possibly said to you that'd satisfy you? Nothing would've been good enough, you'd just go back to searching for his fucking ghost’s approval- Come on! If you liked the guy so much then finish what he started, or just fucking leave! He wanted me dead, how can you fucking stand to be around me? Finish what he started and leave me already!”

Simmons curled his fingers back into a fist, wrenched himself out of his husband’s grasp. He could tell that the others were there, vaguely, but they weren't important to him right now. He was focused solely on Grif. He let the last statement hang in the air, let it drift without an answer. Leave him already. Why don't you leave him already. 

“Since when have you  _ ever  _ given a shit as to what Sarge wanted! You wouldn't know what he wants, maybe deep down he wanted you to be better, did you think of that?”

“Who gives a shit about what he wanted deep down? He didn't fucking show that to me one fucking bit! Goddamn, I don't care if he wanted to adopt me and bring my mom back from the dead  _ deep down _ . That sick old bastard almost killed me so many times, I don't care what his motivation was!”

Why don't you leave him already. He doesn't care. He doesn't care. He hates Sarge, he knows how much he meant to you. He knows what you need and he's being purposefully shitty. He's grinning. He's smiling, he's angry and he's smiling because he knows he's won. Why don't you leave him already. 

“Well, you know what? If you want me to leave you so badly, then I will. I'll go home this fucking instant.”

“Really? Really? You little bastard, you think I'm going to let you take my fucking house, too? No. You absolute piece of shit, no. You're staying. Fuck you. I'm going home.  _ My  _ home. Which I own. Good fucking luck, stay with- Fuck, go have a fucking brotherly bonding moment with your stupid family. Go visit your stupid fucking dad in prison, have a family fucking reunion. I don't care where you go at this point. You have no job, no prospects, no degree, no- No nothing! Good luck. Good fucking luck.”

Grif placed a hand in the center of Simmons’ chest, shoving him backwards. Simmons stumbled, not realizing that Wash had run over to preemptively break up what must have looked like a fistfight in the making. He leaned back against Wash, who spun him around to look him in he eyes. Simmons hadn't realized he'd started crying, but when his brother’s hands went to his face, they came back wet. Simmons was alone. 

Simmons was alone. 

Simmons was alone, and he didn't know how to feel about it. This should have gone differently. This should have gone in a completely different direction, but it didn't. It didn't, because these things were never easy. Simmons didn't make these things easy, Grif didn't make these things easy. Damn it. Damn it.

* * *

 

Wash was doing damage control. It was what he did best. He'd pulled everyone out of the hospital, telling the receptionist that he'd be right back, and sent them off to the cars to cool down. Donut and Caboose were quick to start consoling Simmons, hands on his back and leading him to the car, and Epsilon had- Well, Epsilon looked a little lost. He ended up talking to someone about Lopez and what the implications of Sarge’s death meant in regards to- It was AI talk. Washington understood well enough, but not enough to summarize. That was four out of five accounted for. All that was left was-

“Grif?”

“Hey, Wash.”

“Grif, I have a first n-”

“What’s a legacy?”

Wash paused in heading back inside, turning to look hard at Grif. Grif was leaned against the brick of the hospital, hair loose over his shoulders, smoke curled around his head. He scrubbed at his eyes while Wash watched, shoulders falling and slumping forward. What was he going on about?

“I don’t mean the definition. Like- What is a legacy? I heard it, somewhere, like you need people to remember you or something, some kind of- A legacy. What’s a legacy?”

“I don’t- I don’t know, Grif. I don’t really think about things in that, sort of sense. Why?”

Grif shrugged, flicking his lighter in front of himself. He looked tired, distant. Red eyes, skin on his arms scratched raw, shoulders slumped- he was a mess. As much as Wash wanted to take sides here, declare someone right and someone wrong, fix things maybe, he couldn’t. He couldn’t take a side. Simmons was in there, storming around and desperately trying to get something else out of Sarge- Sarge’s corpse, oh God- an affirmation or something. Grif was out here, kicked down again from someone who he used to try to respect, another little scar to go alongside the rest. Wash wanted to take sides. Wash couldn’t take sides. 

Grif spoke up again. 

“I just don’t want to carry something like that, you know? I don’t expect people to remember me when I’m gone. I mean, I don't have any accomplishments or- Or kids, or. Anything. I don't want people to have to remember me. It’s shitty to leave people with that kind of burden. I just-”

“I don’t think you ever know what it is.”

“Pardon?”

“That’s the whole point, right? Not knowing what happens after you leave. You have to leave it up to, I don't know, the people you leave behind. That’s the legacy or the ending or, whatever. You don’t get to know.”

Grif nodded. Hopefully he was satisfied with that answer. He leaned back hard against the wall, shirt scraping rock as he slid down to sit on the concrete. Wash sat next to him, and when Grif talked again, he listened. 

“I’m not going to remember him. That’s- It’s what he wanted, he wanted to leave some impact on us. I’m not going to give him that. I’m not- I don't want that bastard owning any more of my life, David, I- I can’t go home! I can’t go home with Dick. I’m not going to- He can’t know that I’m just. Not going to his funeral, or taking anything from his farmhouse, or- He can’t know, he'd be devastated, he'd kill me. I can’t-”

Wash leaned into Grif, pressed his shoulder against the other man’s. Grif’s hands were shaking as he talked, and at one point he snapped the lighter on and burned his knuckle. 

“It’s his fault, that I’m- That I’m like the way I am. Mostly, I mean, like the- I don’t.”

“You don’t want to be his legacy.”

Grif nodded, shoulders hitching as he buried his face in his hands. Wash let Grif rest his head on his shoulder and breathed in secondhand smoke, sitting in silence. This was a shitshow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeehaw so  
> well  
> i don't have anything to say about this except please direct all questions to grif-exe on tumblr and eventually i will do art for this dumb story


	17. Relegate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons is tasked with the Turing Test, Grif has some body issues, Epsilon and Wash try their best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> grif's section is between simmons' and wash's. it's kinda gross and gets a little self-harmy and gorey just be forwarned

_ Dear Capt. Richard Simmons-Grif, _

_ Please accept our condolences in regards to the passing of your colleague and ex-Commanding Officer, Col. Santiago de la Rosa. We understand that it was sudden and unexpected. Col. de la Rosa had no surviving family, and thusly we must look to his colleagues to settle his affairs. The UNSC has appointed an administrator, as no will was discovered that could be understood. Interpreters were called in, but the indecipherable state of the deceased’s will has left the UNSC with no options. If you wish to make a claim to any of the deceased’s assets, an address will be included for correspondence. The matter at hand, however, is one that the UNSC is inclined to believe that someone with training in  AI theory and ethics, along with personal experience to the AI in question, could assist with.  _

_ Col. de la Rosa has claimed AI designation  _ _ L-0932 as the beneficiary to his will. Federal law states that only an AI based upon a pre-existing person or persons and achieving full rampancy may be recognized as human under law. L-0932 does not fit these parameters, having been coded and programmed instead of extracted and copied. As it is no longer under ownership by Col. de la Rosa, L-0932 is not eligible to be the recipient of the deceased’s property. If an argument could be made in the case of L-0932’s rampancy status that would qualify it as human, the UNSC would be willing to consider changing our stance. As it stands, by our reasoning, L-0932 is not human and if it is not designated or claimed by anyone by the attached date, it will be deleted.  _

_ Our condolences,  _

_ The UNSC Security Committee. _

* * *

 

“I just think it’d be a good idea to, y’know, maybe stick around? For, like- Donut’s benefit? I mean, they’re trying so hard to fix all this.”

“Nobody asked them to.”

Epsilon scuffed his feet on the floor, staring down at them. He and Grif were alone, now, sitting on opposite ends of Grif’s living room. Grif was wrapping his knees in athletic tape, hissing and whimpering occasionally. He’d stormed out of the airport when they’d gotten home and taken a nasty, nasty fall down a flight of stairs, and of course, refused to go to the damn hospital. So here he was, wrapping bruised up, possibly broken knees. Epsilon seriously questioned his judgement sometimes. 

“Nobody asked them to, but it kind of affects them too. I mean, if Simmons is going to live with them now-”

“Simmons won’t live with them, he’ll find a job, or something. Who knows- Or, actually, who cares! Fuck it. Doesn’t matter to me.”

“Grif, you’re really bad at pretending you don’t care about things.”

Grif ducked his head, hiding his face and hunching his shoulders. Epsilon drew his knees up against his chest, resting his chin to look over at Grif. This was a mess. This was an absolute mess. Now, Epsilon had liked Sarge, but he hadn’t worked with the man enough to develop a complex opinion. He knew he was impulsive and, well, not a great strategist, a little rude to Epsilon, et cetera. But, Grif had known Sarge well. Most of his military career had been under him, or alongside him, or whatever, and that had affected him deeply, no matter how apathetic he tried to act. And given how Grif had held a screaming match with a dying man that possibly pushed him into cardiac arrest, it wasn't a good “deeply affected”. What did he need now, though. He wouldn't answer Epsilon if he asked, for sure, so- What were his options? 

“I can hear you thinking hard over there. I'm fine, Epsilon.”

“You're a shitty liar, Grif. Come on, I know you need something to distract you, or- Or something, but you're just this weird ball of pseudo-apathy who won't tell me what you want. It's obvious, dude.”

“Well, shut up. You and your fuckin’. Eighty friends in your head.”

Grif ran a hand through his hair, eventually focusing on Epsilon. The bags under his eyes were more pronounced than usual, and he dodged Epsilon’s attempt to make eye contact. Theta was shuffling around in the headspace, urging Epsilon to do something.  _ Come on, he needs somebody around,  _ he nudged Epsilon and whispered,  _ you know he needs somebody around and none of us know him except Omega… _

Omega grumbled something that wasn't so much words as it was a lot of loud guttural noises. He even managed to use the body’s mouth to do it, so Epsilon sounded like he was making gurgling noises at Grif. Just swell. Grif furrowed his eyebrows at Epsilon.  _ Swell.  _ Time to deflect onto another issue. Epsilon stood up to go sit over by Grif, headbutting against his shoulder and burying his hands under Grif’s shirt. That seemed to shock him into hushing up, and he dropped an arm around Epsilon’s shoulders. He was heavy and soft and warm and while Epsilon wasn't the one in need of comfort, it was still nice. He was doing his best, and Epsilon splayed his fingers out over Grif’s belly. 

“I’m, uh. I'm here if you need me around, you know.”

“I know, Epsilon.”

* * *

 

If Simmons could describe his emotional state at any given time, he'd call it “fragile”. This was not being helped by any recent developments in his life. Sarge was dead, he was stranded in Iowa and living with two people that he'd never really put in the effort to know (along with an estranged brother), and now the UNSC was demanding that  _ he _ should prove that Lopez didn't deserve to be disassembled. He didn't know how to do that. Sarge hadn't been dead for a week before they started asking shit of Simmons! And it wasn't like he was handling that death  _ well _ , either! So no, UNSC Security Committee, he wasn't exactly in the mood to be bothered about this right now. Hell, when Simmons had gotten that email, he'd thrown his tablet across the sofa and curled into a ball with his arms around his head. 

So no, Simmons was not doing well. He was not doing well at all. And if that wasn't obvious from his constant complaining about how awful his life was, it  _ was _ clear in the fact that he hadn't gotten off the couch since he'd received the email about Lopez. He was sedentary and hadn't slept in three days and overall, was not having a great time. 

It was one in the morning and he was awake, still, dragging his fingers through his hair. He needed to think. He needed to analyze. Sarge died because his prosthetics threw off sparks, so Simmons had yanked off his arm and hoped his own internal organs didn't kill him. This must be how Grif felt, taking those immunosuppressants and praying he- Simmons felt his stomach lurch at the thought of Grif. Okay. Not a good train of thought. Something else, then. Sarge was dead. Grif despised Simmons, probably. Wash was… Emotionally unavailable, as per usual. Epsilon was back home, and he was the  _ one _ person who could give Simmons some help on the AI problem. Dammit. He was alone. 

“Simmons. Simmons. Simmons, I think you need to get off of the couch. You need a bed, Simmons.”

“Go away, Caboose.” 

“...No, I do not think I am going to do that…”

“Shoo! Get out of here, come on. Please.”

Simmons rolled onto his back and kicked his feet out, dragging his hands down his face. He didn't want this. He wanted to be left alone. Caboose was leaning over the couch, eyebrows raised high as he looked down at Simmons. 

“But you have not gotten off the couch, and Donut wants me to make sure that you're safe when they're at work. And I do not think being smelly and unhappy is safe.”

“Yeah, it is. Please, Caboose?”

Caboose flopped his arms over the back of the couch, whining at Simmons and frowning. He looked down at Simmons and rested a hand across his face. Now he was just being a pest. Simmons didn't want to be bothered, but- Well, Caboose was trying. Simmons reached up to brush his hands through Caboose’s hair, humming to himself. He hadn't wanted this to happen. He'd just wanted to get some kind of, of validation from Sarge before he died, and that had just gotten crushed, completely. He'd wanted to go home and mourn and go to the funeral and then just wash his hands of all this, maybe set up a few pictures of Sarge and then be done. Simmons wound his fingers through Caboose’s hair and tugged gently, drawing out a little chirp. Caboose heaved himself over the back of the couch, flopping heavily on the cushions, along with Simmons’ stomach. 

“Jesus Christ, Caboose- You weigh a thousand pounds! Get off, come on-”

Caboose grumbled, shifting and turning until he was sprawled out on top of Simmons. Well, this took a turn for the worse. Caboose was comforting, at least, with big, rough hands that skirted over Simmons’ shoulders. Simmons stopped his wriggling and stiffened. When he was finally still, Caboose sighed through his nose and pressed his face up into the crook of Simmons’ neck. This was bad. This was bad. It was helping take his mind off things, sure, but at what cost? 

“Okay, you have gotten a hug and now it is time for you to get up. One, two-”

Simmons shrieked as Caboose sat up and swung him into the air. Caboose flung him over his shoulder, arms looped around his waist to hold him steady. This was it. This was how Dick Simmons died.

* * *

 

Grif wasn't himself at the moment. He'd managed to doze off in his own bed, sneaking away from Epsilon and allowing himself to be alone with his thoughts. That wasn't great, exactly, but the combination of emotional and physical exhaustion and the comfort of his own bed quickly silenced his intrusive thoughts and sent him off to sleep. It was heavy, dark, dreamless, for once. It was the only rest Grif had gotten in a long time. 

He knew it wouldn't last when he woke up and became excruciatingly aware of the movement of his donated organs. He'd opened his eyes and rolled onto his back, resting a hand on his chest. When he moved he felt his stomach turn, felt the pulsing of blood under his skin, felt muscles stretch and shift under layers of fat. Grif could feel his heart beat in his ears, pounding and loud and every breath he took ached as he inhaled too deeply and warped ribs creaked. He sat up, pushed himself up with the donated arm, not  _ his _ it had never been  _ his _ , felt joints protest and the grit of his misaligned clavicle as it dug into a stretched muscle. His throat closed up, not allowing him to take another breath from his borrowed lungs. He could  _ hear  _ them, he could  _ hear  _ everything working and churning and pumping and pulsing inside himself, he could  _ hear  _ the stress and the abuse he'd piled onto himself and his body, not even his body anymore. Lungs crackling, ribs groaning, heart thudding bones creaking joints twisting-

Epsilon found him trying to claw his chest open, blunt nails scrabbling at the Y-shaped scar over his sternum. He didn't get  _ far _ , really, not far enough, he'd drawn blood but he wasn't able to do what he'd wanted. He hadn't been able to push his fingers into his  _ not his they weren't his  _ ribs and pull them apart and lay out all his  _ not his not HIS _ organs and do stock, count them and take inventory and figure out what was his and what was his husband’s not his husband his ex-husband his separated partner Simmons wasn't his- 

Grif dug his nails into his chest and curled in on himself, wailing. Nothing was his. He wasn't in control of his own life, he was just some byproduct, some cast-off scrap that people handed off when they were done with him. Sarge had done this, Sarge had turned him into this amalgam, this mess, this freak this abomination. If Sarge had just let him leave, Grif would be fine but no this was Sarge’s fault. Sarge did this and he made it known, gasping it out between sobs. Epsilon tried to comfort him, reached out, put a hand on his- Simmons’ shoulder and Grif could feel muscles shifting and nerves sending off impulses when he touched him and Grif jerked away, tried to scream again through his closed throat. 

He just wasn't exactly himself, today.

* * *

 

Wash was trying. He wasn't good with lots of things, helping grief-stricken little brothers being one of them. So he'd withdrawn, a little bit, just for a few days until he could figure out how to help. He'd do this on his own. He could figure it out. 

He managed to find Simmons late one morning. His little brother had an open container of lettuce, and he was sitting on the fence, flinging the shredded leaves at Donut’s ducks. He looked somewhat peaceful, eyes soft and unfocused. Wash cleared his throat so as not to sneak up on him. 

“Hey, kid. Are you holding up alright?”

Simmons shrugged. That wasn't exactly a good sign. Wash sat down next to his brother, taking a handful of vegetables to help him feed the ducks. What would he say. What could he say? Wash hadn't known Sarge personally. He'd known the man was- Dangerous, to say the least. He wasn't the greatest strategizer, nor was he exactly compassionate, or a good leader… None of this would be comforting to Simmons. Pick something good about Sarge. Pick anything. 

“He was… Sarge was very… Good at robots.”

“Good at robots.”

Simmons stared off into the middle distance, face contorting as he mumbled what Wash had said back to himself. Wash had done it. He'd managed to upset Simmons even further- Well, no. Simmons had started to laugh, burying his face in his hands and kicking his feet idly against the fencepost. He pitched backwards and almost fell off his perch, the sudden movement startling the birds around him. This just made him laugh harder, and eventually he really did end up tumbling ass-over-ankles backwards off the fence. 

“I, uh, I didn't think it was that funny.”

Simmons tried to pause for breath and ended up cackling again, waving a hand at Wash like he was trying to calm down to say something. Wash leaned back to knock the container of lettuce onto his chest, and the ducks closed in on him when they realized that there was free food to be had. 

Wash wasn't good at helping people who were grieving. Never had been, and likely never would be. But he could be a good distraction of an older brother once in awhile. That was all that mattered.

* * *

 

_ To the UNSC Security Committee,  _

_ The case for the acknowledgement of personhood and proof of rampancy of AI destination L-0932 will take some time for me to compile. I will have it to you within the month. Until then, F. D. Donut has filed for possession of Lopez and his vessel. They have proper housing and the resources to provide him with the care he needs. It would be wise to grant them custody over Lopez. _

_ Please refrain from contacting me again.  _

_ Sincerely,  _

_ Former Captain of the United Armies of Chorus, Richard Simmons.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love writing this tbh i like seeing how everyone feels out how to handle things and copes or doesn't cope  
> it's just interesting   
> anyways yeah  
> in th words of em "lopez has never done a wrong thing" but like hey thats up to the UNSC now innit  
> comments + critiques are super helpful! I love all of yall and i'm so happy to be writing something that people like   
> my tumblr is grif-exe still if you have any questions/concerns


	18. Ramifications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons continues to destroy his interpersonal relationships. Donut does some catching up.

Caboose liked having people at his house. Most people slept when he was awake, and since that didn't disrupt his routines, it was all fine. He could shower and do his classwork and eat and the only different thing would be that someone was sleeping on the couch, but that was okay because the couch wasn't comfortable to Caboose anyways. Simmons and Washington were both very sleepy people. Washington almost never left the guest bedroom, and Simmons slept on the couch and fiddled with his robot arm for almost four entire days, so it was like not having people over at all. But Caboose liked Wash and Simmons so it was not good, because he wanted to talk to them and do things with them. 

He'd gotten into a habit of occasionally barging into their personal space. Wash hadn't been very happy about it the first time, he had gotten out of the shower and felt like Caboose didn't really need to be around at that instant. So he snuck off after apologizing very profusely, trying to find Simmons. He had a lot of things he needed to ask Simmons. He also had a lot of hair that he knew Simmons liked to mess with, and Caboose knew that moving your hands in something soft was good when you were very upset, and Simmons was upset-

“You want me to  _ what?” _

Caboose had not done well in explaining his line of reasoning. Simmons was typing on his tablet, something long and very complicated that made Caboose’s eyes fuzz over. So he just sat down on the floor in front of the couch, leaning over and hunching a bit to rest his chin on the cushions. 

“I think you are very upset with lots of things and you would feel better if you were- S... Spinning. Swimming. Winning?”

“That's- I don't know what you're referring to-”

“Yes you do! It's, it's,” Caboose hummed in frustration, flapping his hand up near his cheek. “That! The moving. Like my flaps. You do it with my hair. And normally I do not like people touching my hair but it is okay if it's you because you are my friend and I like you. … But you are not my best friend. Do not get that idea.” 

“Uh. Thanks, Caboose. But I only have the one arm right now, and I really do have to type this, it's- It’s important, Lopez could get scrapped if I don't-”

“Call Church! He and Lopez are friends.”

“Not every robot knows every other robot, Caboose.”

“Yes, but Church and Lopez are friends. Church stole his body once.”

Simmons sighed through his nose, sitting up and resting his tablet in his lap. He nodded. 

“Okay. Okay. I'll call Epsilon.”

Caboose leaned over to steal Simmons’ phone out of his pocket. 

“You do not need to! I will do it for you and you can just start swinging.”

“I really don't think that's the word you mean to use.”

“Well, it is the word I  _ am _ using.”

Caboose rested the back of his head against the cushions, tilting back to look at Simmons. He was very flushed and his hand was fidgeting with the edges of his tablet, which he tucked away when Caboose pulled the projection screen of Simmons’ phone up. They waited for it to connect, and Caboose grabbed Simmons’ wrist to push his friend’s hand into his hair. Simmons made a pitiful little squeak before winding his hands through Caboose’s curls and focusing on the projection. A loading screen hovered for a moment before Epsilon connected, looking bleary and rumpled. 

“Simmons, you- Oh.”

“Hello!”

* * *

 

“Yeah, hi, Caboose. How're y’all, uh. Holding up?”

Epsilon ran a hand through his hair and squinted at the holoscreen of his phone. It was early and he had finally managed to get a good night’s rest, but no, that was definitely going to be interrupted. Thanks, Caboose. Epsilon rolled over and looked at Grif, sleeping still. It has been hell to calm him down enough to actually drift off, and Epsilon kept watch until he was sound asleep. So he was a little worried. Sue him. He rifled around in the sheets to pull them up around Grif. Caboose beamed on the screen. 

“We are doing good! Simmons is writing because Lopez is going to move very far away if he doesn't.”

Simmons spoke up, staring down at his lap. 

“He's going to get scrapped and since I’m working on a degree in AI theory, um. They wanted me to make a case for his personhood since I- I have the knowledge and all-”

Oh. That was a kick in the teeth. Epsilon sat up, feeling his heart skip a beat. Lopez was going to be scrapped. As, well- This should've been upsetting to anyone, but as an AI, it was flooring. Lopez was one of the most complex AIs that Epsilon had seen, so the fact that he was going to be killed, deleted, that was painful. That was physically painful. 

“Jesus, Simmons, why didn't you wake me for help before? I'm an AI, I’m more than qualified to-”

“Epsilon, you do know who you're based off of, right?”

And if he felt like crap before, that just sealed the deal. He looked hard at the projection, trying to convey just how he felt to Simmons. Omega shifted in the back of his headspace, not exactly making any attempt at fronting but making sure that Epsilon knew he was there. Normally, he'd shove Omega down. Normally. 

“What's that supposed to mean!”

“It's- Epsilon, it isn't a criticism, but. I mean, there's an entire three sections in my curriculum about the atrocities-”

“ _ Atrocities?” _

“War crimes! The original Church, the Director, he was a war criminal! He's pretty much the entire reason that AI ethics is even a class I have to take. You're based off him, and not everyone can look past that! I mean, Epsilon, you have to realize that the UNSC isn't going to want to work with another Church…”

Epsilon felt a cutting remark bubble in the back of his throat, something cruel, but he reached out to end the call before he could. Simmons wasn't in his good graces because of this, but he wasn't going to send the guy into a spiral. Epsilon rolled back over and dragged his hands down his face, trying to breathe deeply. He could feel this stupid, stupid body dragging him down again, he kept trying to think about things and think them through but nothing moved fast enough and Omega was roiling in the back of his mind, trying to tell him to call Simmons back, really tear into him. 

Grif rolled over in his sleep and draped an arm across Epsilon’s torso. He was peaceful, still. Fucker could sleep through anything. Omega kept prodding in his headspace, trying to start a dialogue. 

_ Let me front. I won't do anything drastic. Nobody will get hurt.  _

Epsilon was a lot of things, but stupid wasn't one of them. He squished himself up against Grif’s side, balling his blankets up around himself. Omega was not going to front unchecked. Not happening. 

_ Spoilsport. Really, who would get hurt? _

Theta piped up, with Eta sending off little twinges of agreement. 

_ Simmons would probably get hurt. _

_ He called us an atrocity. _

_ No, he didn't! He called what the Director did atrocities. That's not us.  _

“That is us,” Epsilon replied out loud, grumbling at the conversations going on in his head. This was getting out of hand. He liked talking to himself, sure, but this was a little ridiculous. Sigma hummed in the background. 

_ We’re a byproduct of the atrocities.  _

_ No! No, we aren't!  _

“Sigma, let Theta be.”

_ I'm right, though.  _

_ He is.  _

_ But- We’re not bad people, we’re just byproducts of a bad situation- _

_ We’re not people. We’re fragments.  _

_ Lopez isn't a fragment, Lopez is a person, you should just help Simmons, maybe get Lopez out of the crossfires. _

“I will kill every single one of us if you don't stop.”

_ That's your solution to everything.  _

“Shut  _ up. _ ”

* * *

 

Lopez was currently residing in a storage unit in a military base in Iowa, and doing some serious introspection. He could tell that there were a few other AIs in storage here, but clearly malfunctioning ones. Dumb AIs. Ones with a singular purpose and one objective. Clear-cut programming. The ability to simulate emotion but not actually emote. Lopez hated not having a body. He wasn't sure who to blame for this farce, but when he got his body back he was going to have some stern words for them. Or he was just going to deck them. Either way. He was biding his time at the moment, until Sarge’s assets could be distributed. 

Donut would petition for Lopez to be put under their custody. It wouldn't be the ideal situation, but he'd be in the same state, and knowing Donut, they'd let him move back into Sarge’s farmhouse. That was fine. Lopez could handle being around Donut. He liked Donut. Besides, it wouldn't come down to him being  _ deleted _ . Lopez was a war hero, alongside everyone else. He'd done the same shit and gone through the same garbage that everyone else did, the only problem was that, well, he wasn't exactly human. But he had the emotions, he had passed test after test and the only thing to set him apart had been his vocal synthesizer. And he hated to think like this, but it wasn't fair. He'd been upgraded and had learned and was fully capable of existing on his own. 

Lopez bided his time in the storage unit, running through the scenarios. This was a disaster.

* * *

 

“So anyways, Dr. Grey, I just really don't trust any of those prosthetics knowing that, y’know, they could throw off sparks at any time, and - Well, it's a little scary! Sarge is gone, and I'd hate for Simmons, or- Or me, to die because of our cyborg-ness. Cybernetics? Ugh, I never know how to pronounce it.”

Donut flopped their chin into their hands, pouting and staring down at the screen on their desk. Dr. Grey was bustling about in front of one of the radio terminals, ginger hair thrown back in a messy bun that really,  _ really  _ annoyed Donut. They wouldn't say anything, but it still bugged them. Dr. Grey paused, resting her hands on her hips and surveying her workspace with her back facing the terminal. 

“Well, I wouldn't worry about it too much! If Simmons’ organs are standardized- and they are, because I replaced them- then he'll have internal surge protectors! I have no idea why Sarge wouldn't have them, unless his prosthetics were that old… But knowing him he made so many non-standard modifications that he probably took out the surge protectors or just never built them!” She turned to face the screen, grin splitting her face, hands stuffed into the pockets of her lab coat, “Besides, most surges wouldn't affect a healthy adult in that manner. Sarge was, you'll excuse the bluntness, old. You and Simmons are young and in peak health!”

Donut twisted their fingers and whined in the back of their throat, digging their nails under the metal grooves of their replacement fingers. Two fingers and a cybernetic hearing aid were causing them this much anxiety. It was hard. They didn't want to stress over this kind of thing, but recent events made it so hard! They brushed their fingers through their hair, patted down the top. They fidgeted and almost didn't focus on Dr. Grey until-

“Doctor Grey…” They emphasized each syllable, punctuated the words with a hard squint, “That can't be a baby bump I see.”

Emily Grey was not one to be caught off guard often. Even when Donut had been around her on the Fed’s base, she'd never been startled by someone sneaking up on her. But her eyes were wide behind her glasses, mouth open as she looked at a loss for words. Donut considered this an accomplishment. After the split second of processing, she beamed and nodded, brushing her hands over the front of her shirt. 

“Well, I guess it's out of the bag! You'd think with only one functional eye that you'd- Oh, nevermind that. Yes! Yes. Van- Kimball’s, of course, she's never had a problem with dysphoria like Carolina, so-”

“Aww! Greeeeeey, you should've told me earlier! When's the shower? Oh! I can totally plan it out for you! Aww, but I wouldn't be able to go… I’ll send you something! Do you have any names picked-”

Donut was interrupted by a knock on the door, Caboose poking his head through and clearing his throat. Darn it. What was Simmons panicking about now? Their attention flicked back to the monitor as Grey waved a hand. 

“Go ahead, I won't keep you! We can catch up later.”

“Thanks, doc. Good luck with everything!”

They signed off and stretched, turning towards Caboose. Time for damage control. 

* * *

 

Simmons wasn't panicking. He wasn't doing well, but he wasn't panicking. He was almost through the first draft of the proposal to the UNSC, he had no one to proofread, he'd pissed off his singular source of information that would've been helpful. But that wasn't panic-inducing, no way! He was fine. Perfectly fine. That's what he told himself as he disarticulated his prosthetic arm and pried panels off of it, trying to rearrange it into something that wouldn't kill him immediately after he reattached it. See, totally normal. This kind of anxiety was natural and totally warranted. He was fine. It didn't even register in his mind that Donut and Caboose had entered the room. 

“Simmons? Simmons, hey, whatcha doing there? You okay?” Donut stepped forward, touched the back of Simmons’ neck. Simmons jolted up, head whipped around as he looked at Donut. They'd touched him, he was okay but they touched him it was just Donut but he'd been  _ touched _ and he just needed to focus on this arm. He'd get it figured out, he just had to pull it apart, and- “Simmons, you've got internal surge protectors. You're not going to die.”

“I'm just making sure.”

Donut kneeled down next to him, hand splayed across his back as they tried to calm him down. It wasn't working, no, it helped absolutely nothing, but Simmons could appreciate the effort. 

“Simmons, you're not going to die if you reattach your arm.”

“It was a bad idea in the first place, I mean, why couldn't he just make Grif a cyborg instead of me! Really, it was stupid, and who cares, who cares, I'll just keep it off, I mean. Hah, really, it's fine!”

“Simmons.”

Simmons set his arm down, face buried in his hand. He didn't know what to say, not to anyone. Not to Donut or Epsilon or- This was a mess. He leaned back against Donut, trying to keep his breathing even and steady as he calmed himself down. In, count to seven, hold, count to five, out, count to ten. Repeat. In, count to seven- This was okay. It was fine. He'd just, put his arm back together and finish his proposal, and. Yes. Perfect. Everything was fine. Donut looped an arm around his shoulders, pulling his head into their shoulder for a hug. 

“I'll help you apologize to Grif. You guys are just a mess apart.”

“And Epsilon. I. I messed up with Epsilon too.”

“You're really bad at this kinda thing, huh. Let's get you put back together, okay? Better get you all lubed up for a proper insertion.” Donut grinned. Simmons rolled his eyes, elbowing them in the side. They snorted, ruffled his hair and nudged the side of his head with their nose. “Come on, you know I'm kidding. Let's get you fixed up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> innocent whistling  
> not much to say for this one altho the word caboose is looking for is "stimming"  
> comments/critiques are much appreciated!


	19. Richard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Iowan crew have a few casual conversations. Epsilon talks to himself, and realizes what has to be done.

_ To the UNSC Security Committee,  _

_ Attached is the case of personhood in relation to AI designation L-0932. You’ll excuse the fact that it’s short, seeing as how the window of time given was a little ridiculous. You’ll also understand that the UNSC is not exactly in the public’s favor at this point in time, and that I am not a subtle man. Lopez is one of the heros of Chorus. As someone who has dealt with and been in the public eye for various reasons throughout my life, and if you’ll allow me to speculate, I can imagine that you haven’t been left with a very good public image as of late. Between Dr. Church and Malcolm Hargrove, it really does seem like the UNSC is churning out whackjobs. It’d be a shame to exacerbate the negative views the public holds of your agency by terminating a heroic AI that most certainly helped save an outer-rim planet from destruction by one of your own, especially given that some of us are very prone to talking about things to the press. You know, they say “all publicity is good publicity”, but I think we both know that’s not true.  _

_ But please, don’t let my comments influence you. I’ve made a convincing case on my own, which is, of course, attached. I hope you make the right decision.  _

_ Sincerely,  _

_ Capt. Richard Simmons. _

* * *

 

Simmons knew a bit about being in the public eye. He’d grown up in a small town, one that was pretty religious and where everyone knew everyone. When Deborah got pregnant, everyone knew from the moment of conception. When Mister Capellini got arrested because his basement meth lab exploded- Okay, everyone knew about that because there was a fireball that engulfed half a suburb block. And when shy little Susy Simmons and her big angry brother David pointed fingers at their father, an upstanding pillar of the community, despite overwhelming evidence in the form of videotapes, physical evidence, mental and bodily harm, et cetera- To say they were shunned was an understatement. It would be more accurate to say that an entire flock of people descended on the head of an abused eleven-year-old and her brother, to the point where David had to join the  _ military _ to get away from it. Sure, in the end, justice or whatever triumphed, Simmons got a stepdad (And a big step up that one was!) and therapy and David got a “prestigious” military career-

Simmons felt like his life was a big joke that nobody would give him the punchline to. He reflected on this at four A.M. as he sucked down another cup of black coffee with an ungodly amount of sugar. He’d just finished penning his letter to the UNSC, but was holding off on sending it until it was a more reasonable hour.  And sure, he could probably sleep in that amount of time, but he'd prefer to just stay up until tomorrow night and then crash. No point in further ruining a perfectly good sleep schedule. 

“What are you doing up, duck?”

Simmons snapped his head up, eyes swimming as he tried to focus on his brother. Dammit, where were his glasses. He squinted at Wash. 

“I'm waiting to submit my case for Lopez. Cause he's gonna be-” Simmons cut himself off with a ferocious yawn, and he drained the last of his coffee, “Decommissioned. Since I'm gonna work in AI theory, they wanted me to make a case for him.”

“You're majoring in AI theory? I- Honestly, I didn't even realize you were in college. That's impressive. You'd be the only one of us who went.”

“No shit? I would've thought Becca went to college.”

“Becca married an investment banker and sells organic dog treats online.”

Simmons traced his thumb over the rim of his coffee cup, nodding. That did sound like his big sister. Wash pulled a chair out and sat down next to Simmons, leaning in to nudge him with his shoulder. He snagged the tablet out from in front of Simmons. 

“Hey, hey-”

“I'm proofreading, ducky. Nobody’s gonna take your case seriously if it's full of typos. Speaking of cases, remember when I went to prison?”

“You got out and held me hostage. And shot Donut.”

“Yeah. Good times.”

“You inadvertently got my husband dragged off a cliff.”

“Good times.”

Simmons snorted and slugged Wash in the shoulder. He still felt a little fuzzy and tired, and he probably did need to sleep soon since he was going to crash at noon if he didn't. But he wasn't going to tell Wash that, since the last thing he needed was to be babied. And he had the feeling that if Wash was given the opportunity, he would become a horrible baby-er. Was that the right word? Oh, gross. Wash was going to  _ parent _ him. Simmons already had two- Well, counting Sarge, three- bad father figures. He didn't need Wash, too. He was zoning out, at this point. 

“You look like you're about to pass out. I'll read over this and submit it for you. Okay? Go on.”

Simmons reached out to swat Wash on the shoulder, but didn't make any complaints. He yawned again, jaw popping as he made his way to his room. He was a little addled, though. Maybe he took a misstep somewhere and his feet just led him off in a different direction. He ended up curled up in Donut’s bed, but, hey. They wouldn't be home for a while. He could take a catnap, no harm done.

* * *

 

“Grif, I'm fine, I really don't-”

“You've been talking to yourself out loud, like, nonstop. You didn't do that before.”

“Yeah, it’s nothing! I'm fine.”

Grif was doubtful. It had been a few weeks since they'd gone back home, and while neither of them were doing  _ well,  _ necessarily, Epsilon seemed worse off. And sure, from Epsilon’s point of view, Grif would be the one who seemed badly off. But Epsilon wasn't sleeping, he talked to himself, he picked at his food and didn't leave the house and stared off into space. It was getting concerning. Sure, Grif had been off his meds for a while, and Epsilon could bring that up, tell Grif that he should make an effort to fix himself rather than focus on Epsilon. But, fuck that. 

“Do you think it'd be easier if I implanted you?”

“I’m not gonna ask you to-”

“You’re not asking. I am.”

* * *

 

_ Do you really like being called Grif?  _

Of course he does, stop asking questions.

_ I’m just curious! You’re the only one that talks when we’re implanted. I wanna know. _

Theta, come on. Don’t be embarrassing.  

_ If I wanted to embarrass you, I would. _

Grif laughed, pulling his car into the parking lot. Epsilon was tagging along, puttering around in his headspace as they went out on an excursion. It was Epsilon’s idea, obviously, since Grif had to get out of the house at some point, and they needed some real food. Epsilon managed to get him into the car, after convincing him to take a shower and put on real clothes. He looked good, he had scrounged up some flowery-printed shorts and a floppy hat to keep the sun off his arm. He seemed kinda happy. Epsilon liked seeing him happy. 

_ You got a cruuuuush. _

_ Theta, don’t be rude. _

Thank you, Delta. So they were going to a farmer’s market. Locally grown, organic, something something, fruit. They were buying fruit. Epsilon had annoyed Grif into getting out of the house, he’d felt decent enough to not need his chair, and Simmons apparently stashed some reusable all-natural bags around so he could- Carry more fruit? Look like a hippy? Who knew with that guy. 

_ You got a crush on him too.  _

Theta was well on his way to getting kicked out. 

_ You can’t kick me out. _

Theta was going to get a stern talking-to eventually, when they weren’t currently occupying Grif’s brain. Shit, they were currently occupying Grif’s brain. He wasn’t paying attention, was he? This was like background noise to him. Of course it was, right? Besides, he was dealing with a barrage of sweaty farmers hawking their wares at him. Shit, did he know these people? They were talking at him like they knew him. Were they just friendly people?

“Look at you, oh, I haven’t seen you since you were this high-” 

“Dexter Grif, on my life, I ain’t seen you in ten years!” 

“Holy shit, I thought you died! Or was that your mom. Is your mom dead?”

“Oh, yikes, dude. Heard you got caught up in that one-man draft business, but I thought you dodged… Damn. Didn’t think you’d got crippled or nothing.”

“Little circus boy! You got a cane now? Elephant step on you?” 

“Hey, when’s Kai coming back? She owes me for this party she threw, and- You’re walking away, dude, she wrecked my house-”

“I was so sorry to hear about your mom, you know, I used to sell tickets, and she was always so nice-” 

“Dexter, Dexter, hey, I heard you got hitched! Who’s the lucky girl?”

“Oh, Dex! It’s good to see you’re still so confident, wearing something like that out of the house.”

“Hey, where’s Richard? He came and visited once, we talked- Where you goin’?”

Grif left the farmer’s market with the food he came there for, an entire bag extra, and if Epsilon was getting the right vibe, a crippling sense of inadequacy and loss. Overall, the outing was… Pretty unsuccessful. Epsilon projected his avatar when they got back into the car, sitting crosslegged on the steering wheel. Grif dumped the groceries on the passenger seat and then reclined his seat as far back as it would go, setting his glasses down on the dashboard.

“Hey, uh. Grif? You okay, buddy?”

“Super. I’m great.”

“You need to drive the car so we can go home. I’d do it, but. I don’t have a body.”

“We live here now, Epsilon.”

“No, we don’t. Don’t make me possess you.”

_ We don’t have that ability anymore. _

“Delta, shut the fuck up. Come on, Grif. It’s time to go home. Off the- Not floor, the. Reclined chair. Sit up. Please?”

Grif dragged his hands down his face, chest rising and falling. His shoulder stuttered. Oh, well- Now he was crying. Oh jeez. Oh, jeez oh, yikes _oh gosh we have to help him come on look how he feels_ **he’s just sensitive** ** _we should help him_** but it’s none of our business _but we have to help him he’s_ ** _our only_** he’s the only person we’re in contact with don’t pull that **sentimental bullshit he’s just a friend** _he’s Grif he’s our Grif_ shut up shut up it’s time to shut up and just do something. Figure something out **_figure something out_** _figure something out_ **figure something out** figure it out. Figure something out. 

They had it figured out. Okay. This was going to work. 

_ You’re psyching yourself up. _

Shut up.

* * *

 

Donut came home, eventually. It was late- Early? It was eight A.M. They were tired and they’d actually driven, for once, so they were looking forward to taking a hot shower and collapsing into bed. The first half of their plan went fine. They collapsed onto pointy green metal. Simmons was in their bed. This was not ideal. He yelped and sat upright, legs flailing as he shoved himself onto the floor. 

“Hey, hey,  _ hey _ , don’t  _ touch  _ me-”

“Simmons!”

Simmons snapped up, head whipping around. He was definitely confused and disoriented and- Yes, panicking. He was panicking. That was bad. Okay, what did Donut know about Simmons. He was tall, he was anxious, he definitely had some serious shit happen to him at some point- He did not like to be touched when he was asleep. Alright, that was fine. Donut slipped onto the floor across from him, crosslegged and quiet. They cleared their throat, tapping their fingers on the floor.

“Simmons. It’s me. It’s Donut. Just me, nobody else. You were in my bed.”

Simmons breathed, hand twisted in the front of his shirt. His eyes were wide, glasses askew, and he searched over Donut’s face. They waved at him. They were incredibly… Unique looking. If they could get Simmons to focus on them again, he’d recognize them and realize they were a friend. Nothing to worry about. Just use those scars and metal auditory implants to your advantage. 

“Just me! Ol’ Donut. Warts and all. No bed intruders.”

“Wh- Yeah. Yeah, you’re- Hey, Donut, sorry, I just got confused. I’ll, uh, I’ll go back to my bed, sorry.”

“I mean, you don’t have to. Caboose is doing errands, and I’m a sucker for a cuddlebuddy! Besides, you’ve been so holed up in your room, you’ve got to spend time with other people! Studies say you need five friendly touches a day, and you won’t get them emailing the UNSC.”

Simmons blanked out. Donut raised their eyebrows, waving over at him. They’d let him deliberate while they got ready.  They stood up and popped their back, crossing the room to rifle through their drawers for pajamas. They’d avoid sleeping in the nude if it was Simmons they were sharing a bed with.They weren’t that close. 

“Sure. Sure, it- Can’t hurt. I’m just going to get back into bed, then.”

“Sure thing! You just hold up while I get ready.”

Donut turned around again, turning down the volume on their hearing aids as they tugged up their yoga pants, splaying a hand across their stomach. They needed to start up their workout routine again. They’d been slipping ever since Doc had to take some time off for the offplanet charity work he’d been doing and had gone incommunicado. Maybe they should take up boxing? Or running, that’d be nice. Wouldn’t get all sore from running. When they saw Simmons again, he was talking, pointing at Donut. Whoops. Hearing aids. 

“...I’m really sorry for what he did, by the way, if I know David he won’t apologize, he’ll just guilt himself into feeling bad and then trying to do some grand act of redemption, so-”

“Simmons, please! If this is about Wash shooting me, well, I’m alive, aren’t I? That’s all that matters. Besides, who’s to say he hasn’t already done some great act of redemption for me? I mean, I had to meet up with Caboose somehow, and I’m not stealthy on my own, and Freckles...”

“Are you-  _ Did you make my brother sneak you past a giant death robot so you could get laid?” _

Donut winked at Simmons- Given their one functional eye, it was more of a blink, but they weren’t here to argue semantics- and crawled into bed next to him. Simmons shuffled down further into bed, bundling blankets up around himself. Like he was cocooning up into a ball. Poor guy. Donut pulled him in close, burying his head up against Simmons’ side. This was what they got for only cuddling giant people. It was comforting. They hummed, reaching up to ruffle Simmons’ hair before flicking off their implants again. They spoke up, goodnight, Simmons, and closed their eyes. They could get used to this.

* * *

 

_ Dear Capt. Richard Simmons-Grif, _

_ We will take your points into account.  _

_ Our public relations problems are none of your concern. Every organization, and by extension, person, has items that they would rather not be brought up. We shouldn’t have to remind you of this.  _

_ Do not forget to whom you are currently employed.  _

_ Regards,  _

_ The UNSC Security Committee. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeehaw  
> i really dont know what to say anymore i mean im truckin along on writing   
> i should have some grifwash smut uploaded within the week but the next chapter of this shouldnt be delayed   
> workin up towards plot points again \o/ might have some gay shit next chapter too perhaps


	20. Reincarnation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons and Epsilon have separate, unrelated breakthroughs. There are consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (heads up! simmons' section, after caboose's and before epsilon's, is a little bit nsfw)

Simmons was shrieking. This was a little concerning to Wash. Okay, more than a little concerning- Simmons screaming generally did not mean good things were happening. It took Wash all of a minute to stumble out of bed, trying to find his shirt, shoving the door open- And Simmons was whirling Donut around in the hallway, laughing and hollering and yelling.  _ That _ wasn't concerning, but Donut looked more than a little terrified, and Wash felt some kind of obligation to not terrorize the host. Time to settle down. 

“David! David, Dave, oh my god, David, I figured it  _ out  _ I got it! I got it, I know how to help Lopez! The Alpha!”

“Richard, that's- I don't know where you're going with that-”

“Exposure to the Alpha! Lopez was possessed by Alpha and, and, look, I wrote it down, I have to send it to the UNSC right now, it was the Alpha! The Alpha possessed Lopez, and he, it's the principle of osmosis, no, no, principle of- Who cares! Exposure! It's exposure! It's the Alpha!”

He was rushing through words and babbling and still swinging poor Donut around off the floor. Wash should probably put a stop to this. He carefully got close to the spinning demon that was his little brother, putting his hands on his shoulders to stop him and then carefully lift Donut out of his arms. They turned their hearing aids up, clearly frazzled. 

“What just happened?”

“Apparently, the Alpha. Donut, do you want to get breakfast?”

“Please let me go back to sleep.”

“Alright, had to try. Rich, come on. Let's get your Alpha idea proofread.”

Simmons bounced on his toes, clearly still working out energy of his discovery. Wash lead him out to the kitchen, desperately trying to figure out what the hell he could do to get Simmons to simmer down. They marched past Caboose, stretched out on the couch with a physics textbook in front of him. He peered up at them as they passed, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. 

“You were making a lot of noise…”

Wash nodded, still pushing Simmons forward. 

“Caboose, can you help Simmons get breakfast or, something, I'm going to review his submission and make sure Donut wasn't traumatized.”

Caboose nodded, sitting up and curling forward. Wash released Simmons. It seemed mean to just abandon him, though, do he pulled Simmons into a hug, then pushed him off in the direction of the kitchen. 

“Okay. Go take care of yourself.”

* * *

 

Caboose liked Simmons. He liked helping people out. Simmons was a little tired and he was hyperactive and excitable and Caboose had been tasked with making sure he was calmed down a little. Now, Caboose wasn't good at calming people. He could tire them out or annoy them, but calm? That was difficult. Simmons was bouncing off the walls practically, flesh-and-blood hand twisting and turning around his metal wrist as he looked around the kitchen. Caboose waved over at him. 

“Psst. Siiiiiiiimmons. C’mere.”

Simmons snapped up, moving to sit on the counter by Caboose. They were almost the same height when Simmons hopped on the counter, Caboose only having to look down a couple inches instead of a foot. Simmons perched there, examining Caboose for a second before speaking up. 

“Alright, what's up?”

Caboose leaned in and dropped his chin on Simmons’ shoulder, arms caging him up into a tight hug. Simmons squawked, tilting his head to the side and tapping his heels against the cabinets under the counter. Caboose hummed and rubbed his cheek against the side of Simmons’ neck, like a cat. 

“‘Boose, hey, uh, you're kinda, beardy, there, that's-”

“Yes, I know. You are very soft, and it's good. You're not scratchy. I like your face.”

Simmons squirmed. His arms came up as best they could, hands pressed against Caboose’s back. His nails were digging in through Caboose’s shirt- Oh, no, Caboose was hurting him- He pulled back, concerned. Simmons was red. 

“Did I hurt you? You are very- No, you're not small, you are just skinny, and kind of fragile. I'm too strong, and I wouldn't want to break your bones. I am sorry...”

“Most- Most of my bones are metal. Half of them, at least, or, some- I'm not fragile!”

Caboose raised his eyebrows. Simmons wasn't very convincing. He leaned in again and wound his arms around Simmons’ torso, rubbing his face scruff on Simmons’ collarbone. Simmons squeaked. Oh, no. That was cute. Simmons was cute... He was red and soft and Caboose liked the squeaky little sounds he could get him to make. He scooted back on the counter, shoulders raised up to protect his neck as he laughed nervously. 

“Yeah, I'm, not fragile, just- Careful, Caboose, jeez, I don't want you to-”

“Oh! I am very sorry. You are still married, I should have asked before being close.”

“What! No, no, I mean, yes, but- Wait, were you trying to- Oh my god, Caboose, were you trying to  _ seduce _ me?”

“Oh, well, yes? But I was not doing a very good job…”

Simmons adjusted himself, clearing his throat and running a hand through his hair. He was flustered. His tank top had rolled up over his stomach, his hair was puffy on top and his freckles stood out on his cheeks and shoulders, his boxers had Stormtroopers on them.  _ Stormtroopers!  _ Caboose pressed his hands to his cheeks, bouncing on his toes as he looked at Simmons. He couldn’t handle this. 

“You are just too soft and handsome! Look at you! I just want to eat you.”

“The- Caboose, the expression is “eat you up”, you know.”

“I know! I was not using the expression.”

* * *

 

Simmons had made some regrettable decisions in his life. A  _ lot _ of regrettable decisions. When he was feeling particularly bad, he could categorize his whole life as a regrettable decision. Letting Caboose sit him on the counter and put Simmons’ legs up on his shoulders was pretty far up on the list. Granted, in the moment, with Caboose nipping at his stomach and humming, Simmons was enjoying it. In an hour or a few days or a week, he would come to regret it, certainly- But Caboose’s hands, calloused and broad, slid over his hips and dammit, he didn’t get to do things like this often, he was going to enjoy this. Caboose was tugging Simmons’ underwear off, pulling back so he wouldn't get kicked, and then- Folded his boxers. He  _ folded Simmons’ boxers _ to put them on the counter. Dammit, Caboose, there was a time to be tidy and a time to just tear clothes off and get down to business! Simmons would've told him that, but Caboose chose that moment to kneel back down, hooking Simmons’ legs over his shoulders and biting down  _ hard  _ on the inside of poor poor Simmons’ thigh. 

So maybe Simmons was a little bit of a masochist. He made an absolutely embarrassing noise, legs snapping shut around Caboose’s head and hips jerking up against nothing. Caboose pulled back and looked up at Simmons, eyebrows furrowed. He was concerned. Godammit, stop being worried. Simmons reached down to brush his fingers through Caboose’s hair, nodding and trying to indicate that yes, he was fine, just easily flustered and twitchy. Thank God, Caboose managed to get the memo and hummed as he leaned in, the flat of his tongue pressed Simmons’-

“Cat!”

Caboose squinted at Simmons when he yelled, pulling back with his tongue still stuck out. The cat had jumped up onto the counter and was now staring, wide-eyed, at Simmons. Not at Caboose. Just at Simmons. That cat had a problem with Simmons, or something, but she was just sitting there, on the counter, staring, and there was absolutely no way he could let Caboose go down on him if the goddamn cat was watching. He conveyed this to Caboose who nodded, stood up, and lifted Simmons up bridal-style to carry him off to the bedroom.  

If Simmons could walk any time within the next couple weeks, he would be shocked.

* * *

 

“No, K-A-I, as in Kappa, Alpha- fuck’s sake, Iota, _ shut up _ . What? No, that was to someone else- Kai. Two Kais, K-A-I-K-A-I-N-A. Last name Grif.  _ Fine,  _ I’ll hold.” 

Epsilon was pacing in the bathroom, which basically amounted to him spinning in circles like a character in a PS1 game. He was on the phone, voice hushed as he talked to  _ somebody _ , God only knew who, who was giving him the runaround. He pulled his hand through his hair, exhaling hard. This was a completely unnecessary ordeal and it shouldn’t be this complicated at all. Here he was, having to pretend to be Grif, just so he could figure out if the real Grif’s stupid sister was still alive. It was ridiculous. Here he was, trying to do something that he’d totally make up an excuse for about how it benefitted only himself and wasn’t a hundred percent unselfish and for Grif’s benefit, and these asshats were making it too damn hard. 

“So, sir, it’s K-A-I-K-A-”

“Yes! Yes! You spelled it right the first time! She was- She _is_ at outpost Alpha, she was dropped off after- Fuckin’, after Donut. After Franklin Donut. It would’ve been Michael Caboose, Franklin Donut- Yes! Yes, she was in the Blue army. _Yes,_ dammit! I’ll hold.”

He sat down on the edge of the tub, head in his hands as he was put on hold. 

_ This music is terrible. _

No kidding. 

_ Can’t we just hang up. _

No, not an option. Suck it up. Now they were all being put on hold, so thanks for dragging all the others to the front, Omega. Jackass. 

_ I don’t get why we’re doing this. Do we have to use Grif’s name? I mean, if his sister is alive, then- _

“And if she isn’t? Look, we’re just checking. Please, I’m trying to pretend to be one person.”

_ Sorry. Maybe don’t talk to me out loud. _

Right. Epsilon tapped his foot on the floor impatiently. Still on hold. Still on hold. This was bullshit. He was going to self-destruct again. 

Still on hold. This was getting ridiculous.

Still on hold. 

“Sorry about the wait, that’s last name Grif, first name Kaikaina, Blue Army private. Thank you for bringing this to our attention, we thought we’d cleared out outpost Alpha with the reassignments of the troops there, she must have refused her reassignment orders-”

“So she’s alive?”

“Private Grif is currently alive, yes.”

“And since you were supposed to clear Alpha, she should be sent home, correct?”

“We can look into removing her from active duty-”

“Yes! Yes, in fact, no, I heard she was misusing UNSC property and funds- Fraternizing with- No, no- Dammit, fuck, she was- Discharge her! Just get her out of that pit.”

There was a pause on the other line.

“Sir, we’ll. We’ll look into it. Anything else?”

“No! Nope, no, good, all good here.”

“Have a nice day.”

Epsilon hung up and set the phone down. It was quiet. Completely silent, for about four seconds. Then everyone decided to talk at once, because Kai was alive _and she could be sent home and wouldn’t that be nice_ but she also might not be sent home and it’s not like Grif could find out since he didn’t have the clearance **but you did you do have the clearance** and he’d done his job he couldn’t do anything else _but he could try_ **he should try** ** _he could do better_** but there was nothing left to do! _Tell him_ but he couldn’t because they still might have messed up they’d been known to do that before **but if she’s alive she’ll be sent home and you’re beating yourself up over this** maybe he was but he shouldn’t have it was fine _it’s not fine you’re stressed out_ he’s fine **you’re not** **_you’re freaking out_** wrong-

_ Come on, Epsilon. _

No. 

_ You have a lot of things to say to Grif.  _

No! 

_ Don’t make me take over.  _

“Shut up, Iota.” 

_ I’ll do it. I’ll do it alone, too. Throw  _ everything  _ off-balance. _

“I swear to God-” 

_ Go have a normal human conversation. _

“Fine. Later, I just need to get my story straight. Jeez. The things I do for you guys.”

_ The things you do for your dumb crush. _

“Hey, shut up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAN ITS BEEN A LONG TIME SORRY GUYS.............................  
> but hey.... hey. hey. look on the bright side. it's good. it's not bad at all.   
> so! i don't have anything to say about this it may or may not be a lil bit of a,,, filler. it's kind of a filler.   
> i have a solid arc for the next few chapters tho! should be a lot quicker! and i might take some prompts on tumblr for my like, eighty thousand grif ships bc i kinda want to do some oneshots or drabbles


	21. Remand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theta fronts, Donut gets a hug, Grif and Simmons finally apologize, and Simmons discovers a suspicious box.

“Can you believe this fucking idiot didn’t render his duck fat? I mean, come on.”

“Grif, you’ve eaten nothing but four dollars worth of gas-station instant ramen for the past week.”

“Yeah, and if there was duck fat in that four dollars worth of instant ramen, I’d have fucking rendered it! I’m a lazy slob, not a fucking culinary dipshit.”

Grif was sitting on the floor in front of the couch, legs stretched out in front of him as Epsilon sat cross-legged above him. This was not how two people should occupy space, but Grif didn’t care a single bit. Epsilon had apparently gotten sick of him moping- which, yes, Epsilon recognized as him being depressed over loads of things- and kicked him into the shower. And then yelled at him (lovingly) when Grif fell asleep on the floor of the shower. It ended up as Epsilon stripping down and berating Grif as they showered together. Which, don’t get Grif wrong, had been enjoyable. But this was so much better. Grif had on clean clothes, there were pillows to sit on, and Epsilon had deemed his hair “disgusting” and was behind him absently running a brush through it now. This was ridiculously nice. 

“How did he win? He-” 

“Didn’t render his fucking duck fat! I told you it’s bullshit!”

Epsilon scoffed, settling back against the couch and going silent. Well, silent wasn’t the word. He sat back, sure, and he didn’t talk to Grif directly, but he still shot off comments under his breath. Whether it was to the other fragments or himself or the TV, Grif didn’t know. Oh, well. He started drifting off after a few moments, yawning and settling down-

“Theta wants to braid your hair.”

That caught Grif off guard.

“Uh. Why? I mean, that’s fine, but still.”

“Look, dude, he just does, don’t ask me- No, fuck you, I’m not going to- Why do I have to leave the front? What? Theta, shut- Shut up! Fine, okay, yes. Fine. Asshole.”

Epsilon mumbled to himself for another few minutes, before going quiet and leaning forward. When Grif turned to look at him, his shoulders- Well, the vessel, body, flesh-puppet’s shoulders, had curled inward, face gone soft and relaxed. Guess this was Theta now. Theta was humming to himself, fingers picking apart strands of Grif’s hair and sectioning off locks. 

“He has a big crush on you, you know. He’s super embarrassed about it.”

“Epsilon? Yeah, I know.”

“Oh,” Theta sounded disappointed. “You did?”

“Epsilon is a shitty liar.”

“Oh. Yeah, he is. You should kiss him more often, he has to hide in the headspace and vent when you do.”

“Really? Who fronts if he’s hiding, then?”

“Iota! She takes over a lot when he hides.”

“Isn’t she fear though?”

“She’s happiness!”

Grif kicked his feet out in front of himself, fidgeting idly. He rubbed at his hand, pinching his ring finger and feeling the permanent dimple from where his wedding band used to be. It had been a few weeks- or maybe a month, Grif didn’t know- Simmons still hadn’t called or anything. It was tiring. It was tiring and there was no way Grif could call him first, there was no  _ reason  _ why he couldn’t either, he just was incapable. Couldn’t do it. There was no way. Simmons would call when he was ready, right? Right. Right. All he could do now was figure out what needed to be said-

“Done! You look so fancy.”

Grif snapped out of his internal monologue, hands going up to feel over the approximately thirty braids Theta had looped his hair into. He felt like some kind of royalty, but there was no way this didn't look ridiculous, of course. Theta leaned down and squeezed Grif’s shoulders. 

“You gonna talk to everyone? Epsilon and, um. Simmons?”

“Yeah, Theta. I'm gonna do my best.”

“Good! I'm happy for you.”

* * *

 

“Aaaaaaand that's why I signed up! I mean, I guess it didn't turn out as well as I wanted, but.”

Donut shrugged, shuffling through the stack of papers on the kitchen table. They'd started talking to Simmons out of the blue, as they were a very chatty person. Also, partially because the local colleges were doubling down on their efforts to get them to sign up. And Simmons had been bugging them about getting to know them better. So not out of the blue at all. 

“Well, I guess it's a better reason than most. I mean, at least you had a plan afterwards.”

“Yeah! It could've been worse. A theater major is kind of unattainable now, given the whole,” Donut cleared their throat, fluttering a hand over the side of their face. “But hey! There's always… There's always Phantom of the Opera! Or Beauty and the Beast. And I'm sure that there's going to be  _ tons _ more shows that have, I dunno, face coverings. Maybe it's not so far out of reach!”

Donut spoke with the usual pep, shifting all the college offers to the side. No point in looking through those. They'll throw them away eventually. Simmons was leaning on the counter, staring hard. Jeez. What did it take to get this guy to stop pressing?

“That kinda seems. A little pessimistic.”

“It's optimistic! Y’know? I mean, at least there's still some opportunities for me, I can do something small. Maybe it's not what I wanted to do and. Maybe that kind of thing is really out of reach now, especially. But hey, reality! Gotta look at what's realistic at some point.”

Simmons nodded and looked down at the floor. Well, that got him off Donut’s back. He'd really been riding them hard about the issue. Time to change the subject, no point in dwelling. 

“Still waiting on a reply from the UNSC?”

“Yeah, actually. I sent them the Alpha proposal, and, hopefully they’ll get back to me soon. What- Sorry, I keep going back to this. What college were you planning on going to? Local, or- I mean, if it helps, I never thought I’d end up in Hawaii! They’ve got a great AI Tech program though,” Simmons laughed, pretty nervously, and plucked at the front of his sweatshirt. He looked down, tapping his feet against the floor. “You could check that out? It’s not for everyone, but it’s a lot less math-intensive than engineering or computer sciences-”

"Hah, come on, Simmons! You know me, I’m not really a science-type person. I’m more of a- A dumb blonde!” They motioned at their hair, grinning crookedly. “Hey, maybe I could get a law degree. If in fact you weren't washing your hair, as I suspect you weren't because your curls are still intact, wouldn't you have heard the gunshot, and if in fact you had heard the gunshot- You know, that kinda thing. Can’t be an ugly actor, but you can sure be an ugly lawyer!”

Simmons looked them over. He was… Obviously concerned. Jeez. Everyone had some self-confidence issues at some point, it was nothing to be scared about. 

“Donut, you’re crying.”

Dammit, stupid muscle damage, they hadn’t noticed- They scrubbed at their eyes with the heels of their hands, cupping their cheeks and smiling over at Simmons again. They knew they weren’t convincing, but they had to try. 

“Good as gold! Come on, don’t worry about me. I’m fine-” But it was too late. Simmons had already crossed the room and hugged them tight. Darn. Now they were being hugged and Simmons was squeezing them tight and tucking their head under his chin. Oh no… Whatever would they do… “Hey, Simmons? Buddy, I don’t know how many hugs you got as a kid, but, you’re kinda making this long, and a little awkward.”

“What- Oh! Oh, shit, no, you’re right. Sorry, hah, just haven’t gotten the chance to hug someone recently-”

“That’s a blatant lie, I know what you and Caboose were doing last night-”

“Which wasn’t hugging, at all, in any capacity. Soooo, not a lie, thanks.”

“You still haven’t let go.”

“And you still haven’t stopped crying. We’re at an impasse.”

Donut sighed against Simmons’ neck, kneading their fingers over his back. 

“I guess we are. The cat’s about to jump on you, by the way.”

“God fucking dammit.”

* * *

 

Simmons was going to be fine. This was the last stop on his tour of Iowa, and his self-discovery, soul-searching journey. He just had to help Donut and Caboose clear out some things from Sarge’s farmhouse. His correspondence with the UNSC was being reviewed. It had been about a month or so, maybe longer. Lopez had been under the microscope for that long, and Simmons’ letters would be the key in deciding the outcome of his case. It had been a month or so, and now he was rolling up his sleeves and getting to work to help his hosts. Donut had insisted that they'd be fine doing it on their own, but no, no. This was on Simmons. He was helping. He could help. He could be useful. 

He could be useful. He chanted that to himself as he sat in the backseat of Donut’s truck, knees pressed prissily against the back of the driver’s seat. He was going to break down at some point. Jesus Christ. Donut turned in their seat, quirking their eyebrow at him.

“You sure you want to come? We’re really okay…”

“I’m good! I want to help. I’ve been living with you guys for a while, come on. I can help out sometimes.”

“Okay, if you say so. You can bail anytime if you're not feeling up to it.”

Simmons nodded. Of course he knew this. Of course! But he had to help. He had to put this to rest. Donut parked the truck in front of the empty farmhouse, gravel crunching under the tires. It was early in the morning, just before eleven, and the house sat empty and alone. Like a sagging dollhouse. Simmons had a dollhouse when he was a kid, complete with tiny furniture and a set of dolls- his father had thrown it out into the rain one day in a fit, and when Simmons had gone to retrieve it, it had looked like Sarge’s farmhouse did now. Sagging and swollen. Creaking on its hinges. Decaying. This was a bad idea. Simmons was getting horrible, awful, age-regression flashback horror-movie thoughts. He needed to calm down. Just go into the house and clear out. He could do that. 

Caboose cleared out the kitchen first. He got a big cardboard box, tucked away spoiled milk and rotten fruit and vegetables since his sense of smell was the worst, and as long as he had gloves on he could touch anything gross. He assured Donut of that, since Donut had worried about him having a meltdown because of the slime. Caboose was content. He was doing fine. Donut and Simmons left him to it. Donut claimed the living room, since they’d always wanted to rearrange the oil-coated, well-worn mess, so they claimed. So, Simmons delegated himself the bedroom. He had mixed feelings about the delegation, but he brought it on himself. He stuck his headphones into his ears, debating turning on music before sighing. He had to do it sometime. He had to.

He thumbed down his contact list to Grif’s name and called him, jamming his phone in his back pocket as he got to work. The phone rang once, twice, Simmons’ hands shook as he lifted pictures out of picture frames and tucked the frames neatly into a box, three times, four times-

“Sh, Iota, shut- Hello? Simmons?”

Simmons swallowed. His throat had gone dry.

“Hey, Grif.”

“Holy shit, I- I thought you’d never call, fuck, dude. Okay, okay, how are you? What’s going on, is everything- Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, we’re cleaning out Sarge’s house today.”

“Oh.” Grif was quiet on the other end of the line for a moment. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s hard. I did look up to him and all, he was. Kind of a big deal to me. But, y’know, I’m fucking crazy, so. I’m fine. How’s it been with Epsilon?”

“Don’t do that. Don’t- You do that thing, with the self-deprecating being buried. You’re not crazy. You’re kind of an asshole, yeah, but you’re not-”

“Well, you’re kind of an asshole too, so-”

“Yeah, I know. I admit it. I’m an asshole. I- At the hospital, I blew up, and I don’t normally do that. You just, you saw how badly he treated me, right? Come on, I wasn’t- I didn’t make that up. He tried to kill me so many times, he was so-”

Simmons could hear Grif cut himself off, heard the phone being set down with a clatter. He didn’t hang up, just set the phone down. Simmons felt his heart thump against his ribs. Okay. He focused on pulling clothes out of dresser drawers, stuffing them into bags and keeping them sorted. Breathe. Don’t get angry at Grif. He heard the phone get picked up again, and Grif’s voice was thick. 

“Look, I’m sorry. I don’t talk about things, and I don’t- I was a jerk. I should’ve thought a little more, I- I probably could’ve listened to you, or done something to make it work. It’s not-”

“Grif, don’t…”

“Look, Dick,” Back to first names. Breathe, Simmons. “I was an asshole. I could’ve handled things better, and I should’ve- I don’t know. I don’t know.” Grif sniffed once, voice wavering. Simmons’ stomach flipped as he listened, he heard Grif press his hand against his mouth and heard soft, tiny whispers as Grif counted to himself. Grif kept things to himself. Grif kept things to himself, and Simmons didn’t, but Simmons was cryptic and an asshole and- They had both fucked up. Simmons took a deep breath. 

“I know. I know. You could’ve done some things better, but it’s- It’s not all your fault. I mean, you, you had every right to hate Sarge. He was- I looked up to him, I did. I still do. But I respect that you have a lot of reasons to dislike him, and-” 

“Sorry. Can you just, Dick, I just want you to say you’re sorry. It doesn’t seem like too much to ask for...” He trailed into silence. Simmons picked up where he left off, metal fingers digging into the seams of a decorative pillow. 

“For how people treated you. Fuck, Dex, I want the same thing, I should’ve-”

“You’re making this about you…”

“Yes, okay, got it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being a jerk. I’m sorry. Is, I know, it’s something stupid to ask, but is it okay if I come back, cause. I’ve been nervous about asking.”

Grif breathed into the phone in a rush of static. 

“Yeah. Please. We can talk, like. Actually talk about how to fix this. We can talk when you get back. I dunno how long you want to wait there, but. I’m sorry, yeah. Please come back.”

“And we’ll fix it then.”

“We’ll fix it then. It’s gonna take time, Dick.”

“I know. Take care of Epsilon until I get back. Eat vegetables or something. I don’t need a couple blobs to get home to.”

“Dude, we’ve been eating great. I made fucking  _ stir-fry _ yesterday. When was the last time you ate a vegetable, huh?”

“Shut up, I eat vegetables. I was a vegan for a while.”

“Yeah, then you self-destructed and sat on the kitchen floor, eating a brick of cheese and crying.”

“I really missed animal products! Okay, okay. I need to focus. I’ll call you back when I’m done cleaning, and. I dunno. Figure out when I’ll be back.”

“Got it. Talk to you later, Dick.”

Simmons hummed, hanging up. He had, while talking to Grif, packed up ninety percent of Sarge’s clothes, had a stack of picture frames in a box, had a stack of actual pictures sticking out of his back pocket, and he was crying. He hadn’t noticed any of this. Dammit. Okay. Okay! He set the pictures down on the bed, getting down on his knees to search under the bed. His fingertips brushed up against a cardboard box. 

That was weird. 

He groped around in an attempt to drag the box out, finally getting a handle on it and pulling it out of its hiding spot. It had a label on the side in big, upright block letters, MANUSCRIPT. Oh, God. Sarge had something written. Sarge had a manuscript. Oh, God. Simmons sat crosslegged on the floor, pulling out a letter that was sitting on the top. This must be the most recent thing in there, okay. Sit down and read it. Figure out what the hell this was. 

Simmons spent four hours sitting and reading the contents of that box.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOD IS DEAD AND IM TIRED AND THIS IS BAD i just want to die   
> how are yall  
> you doin good  
> im so tired and the next chapters are gonna be slow too im just? what the fuc. im quitting my job and also going to fuckin minnesota?? too much is going on  
> hi


	22. Reveal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif and Epsilon have some time together, a doorbell rings, and Simmons has an abrupt change of heart and opinion.

“This is Command calling Blood Gulch. Come in, Blood Gulch.”

Kai heard her helmet radio flicker on from across the room and groaned, rolling over in bed. Time had no meaning on an alien planet where the sun never set and daylight savings was a three-minute-rollback, but holy fucking shit was it too early for this. She sat up and popped her back, yanking her tanktop down over her stomach. Did she really want to answer it? Last time command called everyone else had been reassigned. Grumbling, she got up to retrieve her helmet, jamming it down on her head.

“Yeah, this is Blood Gulch. I read you, I guess?”

“This is Private Kaikaina Grif?”

"Fuck yeah it is.”

“You've been in Blood Gulch for approximately eight years, correct?”

“It took you that long to notice? I've been bored out of my fucking mind! Like, oh my God, when are you going to get working internet installed up here? Dude, I’m a twenty-five year old. Do you have any idea what I had to jack off to yesterday? I haven’t seen boobs that weren’t my own since that weird cyborg stopped coming over.”

“We’ll… Look into it. Private Grif, there was a mix-up in your assignment orders. Is the home address you have on file still accurate?”

“Wait, do I get to go home? ...Do I have to clean the base?”

“No, Private Grif. A transport will arrive to pick you up shortly.”

“Can I take your shit home with me? Cause I can't figure out what's mine anymore.”

“No, Private Grif. Command out.”

“Can I take my Warthog?”

“No.”

The radio disconnected, and Kai tugged the helmet off her head. She stood there, holding her helmet in her hands and shuffling her feet against the concrete floor of the base. It sounded like she was going home, but she'd been fooled before. She tossed her helmet between her hands and stared off into space as she thought. She could go home. As in, home home. Like, she could go back home and fix her plants and maybe enroll in college, or just get a plain job- Shit, the opportunities were endless. 

Aw, what would her house be like? Did it get sold or foreclosed? Nah, Dex would have made sure it was fine, but- No, he was alive. She didn't know where the hell he was though. On that weird planet? What was it called, Chorus? Was he on Chorus? 

Kai shrugged to herself, pitching her helmet onto the bed. It missed by a good two feet, denting the wall instead. Oh well. Not her problem anymore. She stretched again, back arched and her spine popping. Time to pack up and get home.

* * *

 

“So Simmons is coming back soon?”

Epsilon was clinging to one of the stronger boughs of the tree in Grif’s backyard, trying to stay out of the range of the sprinklers that Grif had turned on. Grif snorted from his lawnchair, peeking up at Epsilon over the rims of his sunglasses. He looked like a very disgruntled cat, hanging onto the tree branch and glaring down at the grass. He insisted it was because Theta was co-fronting and had to burn energy, but still. Ridiculous. Grif snapped his sunglasses back into place, leaning back. Sure, the sun was poison to his tattoos, but he’d live. 

“Yeah, he’s coming back. I’m glad, y’know. I mean, we’ve still got a lot to talk about and all-”

“But you’re people, people fight. I mean, y’all both apologized, right?”

“Duh. But there’s still issues.”

Epsilon squinted at the ground, looking to Grif like he was debating leaping onto the ground to escape the sprinklers. What a loser. He spoke up again. 

“Why’d you even get married if you have so many problems? Jesus.”

“Well, y’know. I think we were in some shit, and we needed someone to rely on. Then we got out of the shit, and I guess we realized…” Grif shrugged, settling himself down further. “I guess we figured out that even though we were constants in each others’ lives or whatever, that wasn’t good?”

“Oh.” 

Epsilon hung onto the tree, shimmying down a little bit. Like having an asshole cat. Grif could just turn off the sprinklers, but then he’d be hot, and he wasn’t about to sacrifice personal comfort for Epsilon’s hydrophobia. 

"Yeah. I always saw it as- Him being somewhat of a comfort object. But in a shitty way. Like smoking is. Why am I even explaining this, dude, you don’t care.”

“You’re fuckin’ right there, buddy. Do you have a grill. We should do burgers. What’s that burger with the eggs that you people eat?”

"You’re a shitty liar, and I object to being called “you people”. Just for that, I’m making sure you stay in that tree.”

“No, you asshole, the water is cold, I’m a frail little android- if I freeze I’m a goner- You’re gonna kill me, Grif, Grif-!”

Epsilon shrieked and flailed, still hanging tight onto the tree as Grif snatched up the hose to spray him. He couldn't move too fast, of course, and he leaned heavily on the back of his lawnchair as he screwed off the attachment to douse Epsilon. It devolved into a war, with Epsilon screeching at the top of his lungs and darting across the lawn, and Grif cackling as he shot water across the yard. Grif slipped on wet grass, Epsilon fell out of his tree, and they both ended up wheezing on the ground underneath the jasmine tree. Rubbing a spot of dirt off of his cheek, Grif groaned at Epsilon. 

“I'm too old for this shit.”

“Dirty fuckin’ Harry.”

“Dirty Harry didn't say that! That line was in Lethal Weapon. Come on. You fucking philistine.”

“Big word coming from a guy that didn't finish high school.”

“I finished high school, and furthermore, you're fucking ten years old-”

They got caught up in the argument. It was a little sad how easily Grif fell into bickering with someone. It felt more real than having a deep conversation. He'd rather annoy and pester someone on purpose than dump his feelings out onto them, and. Besides, he liked Epsilon. And Epsilon liked him! They were buddies. They could hang out and argue over what an AI’s age meant without it being mean. It was good. He stared up at the sky through the leaves. 

Through the open back door, he heard the doorbell ring.

* * *

 

“So you’re leaving for Chorus?”

Wash peered up over the edge of the bed, blinking at his little brother. Simmons was leaning on the doorframe, shoulders curled and arms folded. Wash was just packing up, and was rifling around under his bed for a missing pill bottle. They were little orange capsules of menace and they liked to disappear at the literal most inconvenient times. And they didn't work. Wash kind of hated them. 

"Yeah. I'm riding in on a shuttle and staying until we- Me and Carolina and her… Wives? Until we all come back in. November. For your wedding. Which Donut insists is still on, I think.”

“Yeah. It's still on. Listen, can I- Can I talk to you about something?”

“Last time you said that we had to deal with the court system for six months.”

“You're hilarious. I'm serious, though. I found something while I was cleaning out Sarge’s house.”

“Oh, God. Ducky, I don't need to know anything more about Sarge than I have to. I am so incredibly serious. That man has shared things with me that still haunt me to this day."

Simmons sat down on the bed, leaning down to sock Wash in the shoulder. 

“You're an asshole. No, I found a book. He wrote a book about himself, contacted a publisher and everything. And I read some of the letters, and. He was on his way to getting an autobiography published.” Simmons went quiet for a few moments, picking at a button on the comforter. “David, do you- Do you think he was like, uh. The stepdad was?”

“The stepdad- Well, I wouldn't really know. I was only around him for a few years, and you know how it is. Some people say they've got a mind like a steel trap, so whatever the opposite of steel is- That's. That's me.”

Simmons pondered that for a moment, looking down in thought. Then he snapped his fingers, exclaiming, “Fighting/Ground trap.”

“Fuck you! The point is, I don't remember anything. You'll have to spell it out for me, kid.”

“Do you think he was, I don't know, controlling? Doing things that were- For our own good? Things like that?”

“Our stepdad? I mean, yeah. Of course. He wasn't a great guy.” Wash finally got his hand around the missing bottle, sitting back on his knees to toss it into his bag. Antipsychotics, accounted for. Was he missing anything else? Shit. He has to be. He was definitely missing something else. Simmons dragged his hands through his hair and made an agitated noise. 

“And do you think Sarge did the same kind of thing?”

“Duck, I wasn't around Sarge for that long-”

“But did he do the same thing?”

“I don't know! But the fact that you're getting all irritated about it makes me think that you do.”

Simmons groaned, tugging at his hair again before falling onto his back on the bed. Wash felt a little sorry for him. Clearly he was dealing with some heavy stuff, and while Wash wasn't in a good enough mental state to help, he could still empathize. A little. As best he could. Wash sat next to him, patting his shoulder. What the hell did he say in this situation. He didn't have to, as it turned out. 

“He wrote an autobiography. And his publisher approved it being sold as long as someone annotated it. I'm going to email her about writing the annotations and foreword.”

“Well that's good, I guess-”

“I have to go through his entire life and break down all the hero worship garbage he's been telling to himself.”

“Oh. I'm- I’m sorry-”

“He was a bad person. And I just. I looked up to him.”

“You’ve got a bit of a skewed perception as to what a bad person is, ducky. You were talking about how bad he was, were you helping him be terrible?”

“Kind of? I didn't stop it. I'm sure I helped sometimes.”

“Then apologize for that, and denounce him. Fix what needs to be fixed.”

“But-”

"No buts. Come on. You're fine. Now, are you going to write this foreword or what? I'll pull out my laptop and you can get to work.”

* * *

 

Simmons stayed up all night emailing Sarge’s publisher, typing on his brother’s laptop back and forth about the circumstances. Now was the best time, really, to publish his story, get it out before it got forgotten. Rally some outrage, even. Simmons typed out seven rough drafts, passing them between Caboose and Washington to proofread, and sent the eighth to the publisher. She marked out one misspelling, and approved it. The book would be out as soon as they could work out the kinks. 

Simmons closed the laptop, reclining back and yanking his hands through his hair. Then he opened the computer back up, and re-read the final copy.

* * *

 

_Feet-First Out of Hell  
_

_An Autobiography by Sarge_  
Foreword and annotations by Richard C. Simmons  


_I met Sarge on my first day at Outpost Alpha 1-B. I was twenty years old, had been in the army for three years, and pretty desperately needed an authority figure to latch onto. Sarge- he was still a sergeant back then, so Sarge in a couple ways to me, at least- looked me up and down, and promoted me to Private, First Class. It was probably the greatest thing to happen to me at that point in my life. I might have latched onto Sarge. And latching onto Sarge might not have been a good thing.  
_

_He wasn’t a good person.  
_

_Knowing him- looking up to him for so long- probably blinded me to who he was. I looked up to him and frankly, idolized the man. He was successful enough, he was imposing enough, he was someone that I wanted to look up to. Someone that I wanted to be proud of me. I’ll admit, there were some issues that I hadn’t dealt with. I was a little idealistic.  
I was wrong. I can admit it. I can admit it now, but I should have admitted it a lot sooner. Sarge was complicated. Dealing with his death forced me to consider the possibility that he wasn’t infallible. _

_But the idea that he wasn't perfect was something completely foreign. When we- the royal We- admire people, we don't notice their flaws. Even if they're so, so glaring. It's hero worship. Plain and simple. I was, and still am, guilty of this myself. Sarge was a complex man, and reducing him to once facet is doing him a disservice. He was a rugged, commanding authority figure with a penchant for unorthodox but effective military strategy. He was absolutely bonkers, attempting to murder his privates for the most minor insubordination. He was someone that got hurt in his military career, and that probably caused him to be the person he is today. He was a Helljumper who lost his legs, and he was a Sergeant who lost his command, and he was an old man that lost his mind. None of this made him a sympathetic figure. He did good things, to be sure. But...  
_

_Sarge, to put it kindly, makes himself out to be the ultimate hero of the story. I think he wanted to believe that he was helping people. I think he wanted to believe that every bad, murderous, cruel thing he did helped people. And in this book, he spins all that into his own version of the story. He wanted to be the good guy when in reality, he wasn't always doing the right thing. And I can't let him do that anymore. I'm sorry. I understand that you're going to want his side of the story. But this isn't the way to get it.  
_

_I'll add footnotes throughout the book when he's putting this spin on himself. I agree that sharing his story with the world is a good thing. People should know about what happened! But this is not an unbiased biography and releasing this unannotated biography into the world would be absolutely irresponsible.  
_

_Sarge, I know you wanted this to be how you're remembered. I'm sorry I disagree, sir. Maybe next time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ITS BEEN EIGHTY FOUR YEARS IM SORRY   
> I'm sorry I'll update it more often..... guys....... I'm sorry   
> This was posted on mobile so sorry if it gets all wonky but I just don't wanna make y'all wait any more


	23. Resurrection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kai comes home, Simmons gets ready to come home, and Wash gets some help from Carolina when it comes to identity issues.

Kai pressed her finger on the doorbell for a full six seconds, leaning heavily against it. Apparently her stupid fucking brother had lost the key that she always kept taped to the top of the doorframe, so now she had to resort to buzzing her own house. Like some kind of asshole. God, Grif. She waited and buzzed again. He was home, for sure. Their stupid beat-up car was in the driveway, and she’d heard laughing coming from the backyard. Was he avoiding her? Shit, no! She almost died! Grif was just being a lazy turd. Kai leaned on the button again. She heard someone thump across the floor and the door opened. 

“Oh my god. Why does my brother always date gross little gremlin dudes?” 

Before he, the gross little gremlin dude, could talk, Kai could hear her brother call out from the kitchen.

“Epsilon? Dude, if it’s one of the Wu kids from down the road, you gotta-” Grif came out from around the corner, leaning heavily on a cane. His face fell. In the span of a second he went from a content smile, just a shade happier than neutral, to- Well, shock. Awe. His eyes widened and Kai could see him lean harder on his cane, hand shaking. He cleared his throat, free hand passing over his face and rubbing his eyes under his glasses. “Epsilon, who- Uh. Who’s this.”

“Oh my  _ god,  _ can you not recognize me? That’s shitty, Dex.”

“No, no, I recognize you, I just. Understand that, I am, in fact, dreaming, or hallucinating, or dying. Oh. Shit, no, I- Yeah, no, I’m dreaming. Okay.” Grif nodded, turning around and going back into the kitchen. So much for that. Epsilon, that must be him, frowned a bit. He looked up at Kai, eyebrows raised, and motioned towards Grif. Ohh, okay. He wanted her to- Make him feel like he wasn’t dreaming? Sure, why not. Kai crossed the room and slapped her brother hard on the back, pitching him forward. He swore and stumbled and almost fell flat on his face. He spun around and glared at her- 

And he was crying. God, her brother was such a baby sometimes. She slugged him in the arm and figured she’d have to tell him so.

“Don’t be such a bitch, c’mon! I’m home! Welcome me back. If you forgot all your Hawaiian, since you’re a dumb shit, that’s  _ e komo mai. _ Say it with me-” 

Grif swatted at her arm. Aw. Here she was, trying to be nice and all. And he was being a dick. Isn’t that typical.

“E ku’u akua- You- I thought you were-” Grif took a deep breath, looking like he was trying to compose himself. “Kaikuahine, I thought you were dead-”

“Aww, kolohe-”

“Hey, I’m talking! Don’t aww, kolohe me, you fuckin’- pupule, maha’oi- ‘ōkele! You didn’t think to call me and say, hey Dex! By the way, I’m alive and not murdered by a shitty robot! Send Plan B!”

“Uh, the fuck, bro? I would’ve tried to call you! You know Blood Gulch hasn’t got any way of talkin’ to people!”

“Ainokea! You could’ve figured something out!”

Epsilon cleared his throat, “Guys, I hate to interrupt, but none of that is words, and do you think you could hug or something before you start screaming at each other? Jesus.”

Grif whipped his head around and glared at Epsilon, and- Well, there he went, crying again. He wobbled his way over to the couch and sat down, burying his face in his hands and trying to compose himself again. Gross. Now she had to do the whole ugly sibling-bonding thing. She sat down next to him and flopped her arms on top of his shoulder, chin rested on top of his head. 

“You’re an ugly crier. If you do that in front of your gross gremlin boyfriend he’s gonna leave you.”

“Epsilon isn’t-” Grif inhaled once, and looked over at Epsilon. “He's already seen me cry. It's fine. He knows I'm ugly.”

“You didn’t deny him being your gross gremlin boyfriend. Fuckin’ caught it.”

“No! God damn it!”

* * *

 

Donut peered out from behind the bedsheet they were currently hanging up on the line outside, giving Simmons a quizzical look.

“But if you’re leaving today, you won’t get to meet my moms.”

“It’s nothing against your moms! I’m just nervous around- Parents. In general. And I already have the flight-”

“I understand! But are you sure? You don’t need to bolt so quickly, y’know.”

Simmons shrugged and handed off a package of clothespins to Donut. 

“I don’t know. It seems like it’s been so long. I miss my husband, crazily enough. Besides, we’ve got a lot to talk about, too, and- I’d just like to head out! It’s nothing to do with you-” 

Donut grumped and pushed out from under the bedsheet, flopping against Simmons with their arms draped over his shoulders.    
“I know! I’m gonna miss you though. You’re such a good houseguest. Plus, Caboose likes you. And, ‘cause of you and your- AI theory stuff, Lopez is gonna be able to live with us! I mean, that’s a plus? Oh, jeez. I’m gonna have to introduce Lopez to my moms…”   
Donut trailed off, whining and butting their head against the back of Simmons’ neck. They didn’t want him to leave. Simmons had this really nasty habit of dropping off the face of the earth and not getting into contact with them at all for weeks on end. It sure didn’t make them feel good. Simmons was kind of squirming, reaching behind him to pet the top of Donut’s head. 

“You’ll come see us in a few months for the wedding anyways. How, uh. How is that planning, anyways?”

“Simmons, you know I’m a patient person, but you people are driving me up the wall! If it’s not a solid yes or no answer for everyone on the guest list, then it just means I’m gonna have to fudge numbers and try to-” Donut whined again, headbutting Simmons again. “I mean, don’t get me wrong! It’s so fun! But man, you trying to get you people to answer a yes or no question is like trying to herd cats!”

“I’m really sorry, Donut. I could help if you-”

“No! Absolutely not. It’s my project and dangit, I’m going to make it work. Oh!” They slapped at Simmons’ chest, forgetting what they were saying for a moment. “Your plane! Oh my god, oh, Simmons, come on!”

Donut pulled at the back of his shirt, dragging Simmons around the house to the car while babbling about getting packed and calling Caboose while he was in his classes. They needed to call Wash, too, make sure he was safely on his transport, and Grif knew his flight was coming in, and- Oh, so many things to do, okay- Simmons was protesting about not having on good traveling shoes, but to hell with traveling shoes! Traveling shoes only did you so much when you weren’t on the plane in the first place!

Simmons had been moping so much, even if he thought Donut didn’t notice it. It’d be good for him to get home and go back to a normal routine. Donut buckled themself into the driver’s seat, checking their phone as it beeped. Wash’s number. They’d see what he was up to after dropping Simmons off.

* * *

 

Wash woke up to a baby being dropped onto his face. 

Well, no. That was harsh. He woke up to a baby being  _ gently placed  _ onto his face and then lovingly grabbing his nose with her deathly strong baby grip. So, not any less harsh, but. Still. He carefully removed the infant from his face, prying her fist away from his nose and sitting up to hold her properly. Carolina was standing over the sofa, hands on her hips and hair held back by a headband. He'd taken one of the long transports back to Chorus; it had taken about a week to actually send him here. Things were… Different. Grey’s baby had been born by then, and Kimball and Carolina were in full mothering mode. They'd let him stay at their house for the couple days that he'd been back. And yet, he'd still never gotten used to being woken up like this. 

“Morning to you too, boss. And the reason for the wake-up committee is…?”

“I need to figure out how to pretty myself up for your brother’s wedding and your face is the closest match to mine. You're my model today.” Carolina dabbed at a spot of drool on her shoulder, making a face down at her baby. “Come on, Wash. Time to be domestic.”

Wash groaned, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hand. The baby cooed at him, reaching up with one chubby hand for his face again. He looked down at her, squinting into her eyes. Fat baby face. Fuzzy baby hair. Wet baby mouth. She knew something. She knew what he's done. She couldn’t be trusted. 

“Wash. Up, shave. Let's go. You can intimidate Allison later.”

“How  _ old  _ is she?”

“Three months. Wash. You're doing it again.”

The baby had to go. Wash handed her off to Carolina, finally free from Allison’s judging baby gaze. He stretched, something in his back crunching, and yawned. Not a good noise, but he'd live with it. When he stood, Lina snagged him by the collar and dragged him into a kiss, hand cupped over his cheek. She hummed softly and pecked at his lips a second time before pulling back, smiling. 

“There. Now wake up properly and report to my bedroom in fifteen minutes. I've gotta drop her off to her momma and I'll meet you there.”

Wash nodded and set off to drowning himself in contemplation. Or maybe dissociating. He went through the motions of brushing his teeth and scraping a razor over his jaw and getting coffee, eyes out of focus and hands a little numb. Whenever he spent a serious amount of time with Carolina, he got to thinking. He didn't like her romantically. He… Didn't know what qualified as romantic anyways. He'd certainly thought of her sexually before, they'd had a couple wrestling matches that had ended up a little less professional than they should have- But what the hell was  _ romance? _ He'd always had friends that he'd been intimate with. Well, that was a lie, he'd always had  _ Lina  _ who he'd been intimate with. But they'd been together through so much, that was just a side effect. Of course. Epsilon and- Well, the entirety of Project Freelancer, all that mess- She was- Carolina was his closest friend. They'd shared beds and stories and traumatic experiences and Wash couldn't think of living without her in his life-

But still, what the  _ hell _ was romance? Ridiculous, that's what it was. She was his friend and it was platonic and- Well, he supposed he loved her. Fuck it. She was his friend and he loved her and he supposed that she loved him too. Probably. He'd have to ask. 

“Wash.” Carolina waved her hand in front of his face, and he blinked. He'd spaced out long enough to actually do his job and get his body to Lina’s room. Whoops. He cleared his throat and nodded, shifting his gaze up the couple inches it took to look Lina in the eyes. She smiled slightly, one corner of her mouth crooking up as she led him off to the bed. “Okay. Sit tight. You can dissociate while I work, if it makes you feel better.”

Of course, that wasn't a conscious decision. It happened anyways, though, Wash barely aware of his face being painted and powdered. He didn’t think about anything, didn't see anything, just sat there focusing on nothing. A while later, or a few minutes later, Lina flicked him gently on the nose in an attempt to draw him back to reality. It worked, slightly. He blinked once, looked in the mirror she was holding up for him, and the first words out of his mouth were:

“If that's me, then this isn't supposed to feel as good as it does, right?”

Carolina raised her eyebrows as he traced his fingers over his cheekbones, drew his bottom lip into his mouth and worried it between his teeth. That couldn't be right. That couldn't be his face. That face looked  _ correct.  _ He swallowed and felt his throat click. Maybe it was a lingering detachment from reality. Maybe. Something in Wash’s mind slid into place, and a whole lot of Things, capital-T Things, made a lot more sense. Wash. It was a terrible name. It'd work until he- Until she- Until she figured something out. Her heart jumped. That felt good to think about.  _ She _ could find a  _ new _ name. Oh, this was going fast. She was dizzy. She felt dizzy. She, Wash, felt dizzy. Everything spun and she was already sitting down and she wanted to cry and she could focus on the face in the mirror, her face and realize it was smiling, she was smiling. She spoke up, and her voice felt fuzzy, floated away from her.

“I don't suppose you have any dresses I could wear to the wedding, do you?”

* * *

 

Carolina smiled, tilting the mirror away from Wash. 

“Came on you a little suddenly, hm?”

“No, it- No! Of course not. Is it supposed to?”

She sat down next to Wash, forehead rested on her friend’s shoulder. How did she explain the experience. She'd been able to figure out at seven and got on hormone blockers early, but puberty didn't exactly happen around forty. It was a bit late for that… Wash probably thought something was off. It was easy to think something was off. Figure it out too quickly, that was wrong. Figure it out too slowly, that was  _ super  _ wrong. Don't figure it out and then come upon it all of a sudden? That must be the most wrong way imaginable. 

“Lina, is it- What should I do, though? I mean, I'll need a new wardrobe, or, no. No, too much. This is too much all at once. It's just a-”

“Wash, if you call it “just a mental thing”, I swear.”

Wash’s hands swatted at the bed. 

“It could be! I mean, I'm sure you thought for ages upon ages before-”

“Wash, look at me.” She took Wash’s face in her hands, moving to sit herself properly on her friend’s lap. Leaning in, she rested their foreheads together and closed her eyes. 

“I told my dad, at seven, that I didn't want to be called Daniel anymore, and my mother went out and bought me a new wardrobe and new hormones. If anything, you're taking this slower than I did. Okay? You're figuring things out.”

“So, I'm- I can just call myself a. A girl. I can  _ do  _ that.”

“It's not like signing a lease on an apartment, Wash. You can test it out. And if you want to transition, Grey’s been helping me so much. She'd love to help you too. Do you want to be called a girl?”

“I wouldn't mind testing it out.”

Carolina nodded, brushing Wash’s hair off of her forehead. Lina planted a kiss there before winding her arms around Wash’s torso. 

“Alright. It's not going to make you dissociate?”

“Everything already does.” Wash snorted and hugged Lina right back, fingers twisted in her shirt. Carolina sat there, content to comfort her friend for the moment. There was a soft mumble, something she couldn't hear properly. Wash seemed to realize she'd spoken too quietly, and cleared her throat. “I, um. You do know I love you. Right, Carolina?”

“I know. And I love you too. Now, if you want to tell your friends, what would be the best way of doing that?” 

Wash rested her head against Carolina’s shoulder, thinking for a moment.    
“All I’d have to do is tell Donut and they’d get the word out.”

“Well, let’s do that then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you didnt notice this fic is entirely self indulgent and by golly in the end i will make everyone happy and cared for and loved and supported   
> wash /is/ aro but she doesn't have a word for that. but she and lina are QPPs in everything but the name.   
> im the garbagae man


	24. Rebellion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif and Simmons talk, and Kai and Epsilon escape.

“Hey, Dex.”

Grif felt the beach chair he was sitting on sink down. His knees creaked as he drew them up to make room, rubbing his eyes and squinting. The sun had sunk down and the sky was purple, but- Had he fallen asleep for seven hours? It had been bright out before, but. Dammit. He still felt tired. Simmons was sitting next to him, hair stuck up in the back and glasses hung in the collar of his shirt. It was surreal, seeing him again. It was surreal and Grif felt his stomach lurch, so he turned to swing his legs off the chair, facing away from Simmons. It didn’t feel right to look at him. 

“You- I didn’t know you’d be-” 

“No, I, yeah. I know, I called Epsilon to pick me up, but you were- You were asleep. Sorry. Um. Kai’s back?”

“Yeah. She is.” 

Grif folded his arms in front of himself, staring down at the grass. He could hear Simmons shifting behind him, and his husband cleared his throat. 

“Um. Wash, is- She came out, earlier today? I think Donut did some kind of, news, bulletin, thing. She's not sure about any names, yet. Just wants to be Wash for a while.”

Grif pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, nodding. 

“Yeah. I know.”

Simmons turned, and Grif could feel him reach out, hesitate. Simmons’ voice wavered, “We. We need to talk.”

"I know, Dick. I know.”

“Well, what do you-” 

“Look, Dick. I want to fix- This. But I don’t know if I want this to work or if I want us to- To be better, better people. And I’m,” Grif inhaled, burying his face in his palms, “I’m afraid. I’m afraid that we’re going to have to choose between fixing our relationship or being. Healthy people. I don’t want to choose.” 

“Do you think we’re bad for each other?”

“I don’t think we’re good! I think, we’re both enablers, maybe, and we got used to something that wasn’t good, and now-” Grif shook his head. He didn’t know what to say. It felt like it was bubbling in his chest but just wouldn’t come out. He didn’t share feelings. He’d- He didn’t do that often. And this was terrifying to him but he didn’t know what he should do. Should he talk? What was he supposed to share. Should he ask a question? Get Simmons’ opinion on it? He was scared. He was terrified. He had to try. “What- What’s your perspective on it. On why it’s like this. Where we went wrong.”

Simmons barked out a laugh. 

“I guess I was accustomed to feeling- Used by people. And when you weren’t like that, I think I panicked? Because I don’t know what to do with that. I never… Had a positive influence on my life. And I think it affected me more than I let on. And I,” Simmons shuddered, shoulders hunching forward as he leaned over his knees. “I wanted you to be like my dad. I wanted you to use me, because. If I didn’t need it anymore, I’d have an excuse to get rid of you. But you weren’t like that, and I don’t. I don’t deserve someone who’s not going to hurt me. So I-” Simmons paused, shaking his head as Grif looked at him. He sighed through his nose, getting up wearily and turning so they were sitting side-by-side properly. “Am I a bad person? For all of this?”

“I think maybe we’re both bad people. Or, just. Not good people. I think we can try, but we’re still-”

“We messed up. We, we are. Messed up. Dex, do you think we can still…?”

Grif chewed his lip, leaning in to bump his shoulder against Simmons.

“Did I ever tell you that the reason Kai thought she could OD on aspirin was because I hid everything else. Because, I’d tried to- On sleeping pills. And she wanted to- She didn’t. Realize.”  Simmons stared at him, eyebrows furrowed. One hand moved to squeeze Grif’s, and Grif nodded.  “I don’t like talking about- My problems. I don’t feel comfortable, but. I should’ve told you about how I felt. I just couldn’t. I never wanted to talk about how I felt, but I expected people to know anyways. And, in some situations, it should’ve been obvious, but. I expected too much, I guess.”

They sat there quietly for a few moments. It was getting slowly darker, and the light in Kai’s room had turned on. Epsilon was talking animatedly to the other AIs, silhouetted against the curtains on the windows. Grif rubbed his thumb over the knuckles of Simmons’ hand, clearing his throat. 

“Can we make it work? If we talk to each other?”

Simmons pressed his hand against his face, shivering and nodding. His breathing was thick, like he had something in his throat. 

“I want it to work. I’m, I’m so sorry. For treating you so badly. I know why I did it, but that doesn’t. It’s not an excuse.”

“And I’m sorry for- I’m sorry for being an ass. I know that, nothing that’s happened to us in the past, or. Our fuckin’. Mental problems. It’s not gonna get fixed because I love you. And, I do love you. But, I think, we just need to make sure we know what’s going on. Because- I love you, I- God, I’m so fucking hopelessly in love with you. But I need to know that we’re not going to get hurt again. Neither of us.”

“We won’t. We’re- We’re gonna make it work. Right, Dex? It’s going to work. I’m- I’m sorry. I love you too.”

Simmons poked the tips of his metal fingers into his mouth, digging his teeth in. Grif scooted in closer to carefully cup his hands over his husband’s cheeks, turning his face and pulling him in to kiss him. Simmons made a soft, choked noise, threading his hands through Grif’s hair and melting against him. They didn’t pull back for air for a long time, and Grif hardly noticed how hard he was breathing when it did happen. Simmons’ lips were wet and pink and he caught the bottom one between his teeth as he brushed a hand through Grif’s hair. 

“I think,” He paused when Grif moved in again, so close that Grif could feel his artificial heart in his chest. “I think we shouldn’t- We shouldn’t do this outside.” 

“Should- Should we go inside?” 

Simmons melted against him and nodded, winding his arms around Grif’s torso.

“Please.”

* * *

 

Simmons had his hand firmly clutched in Grif’s as they snuck through the back door. Epsilon gave them a weird look when they walked past him, but decided against saying anything apparently. Which was a good choice on his part. A very good choice. They locked their bedroom door behind them, and Grif leaned heavily against the dresser. 

“So you, uh. You come here often?”

Simmons snorted, sitting down hard on the bed and drawing his knees up to his chest. 

“Oh, not much. Just a-” Simmons cut himself off with a giggling fit, hiding his face in his hand. “Just a small-town-” No, he was laughing again, falling backwards and swatting at the bedsheets. It was too much. He didn't know why it was too much, but it was and he was laughing. Grif flopped next to him and draped an arm over Simmons’ chest, grinning. 

“An entire small town.”

“You know it.” Simmons shook his head, still smiling ear-to-ear. “Look at the situation you’ve gotten yourself into since I’ve been gone. Banging an entire small town.”   
Grif raised his eyebrows and rolled over on top of Simmons, sprawling out on top of him. So much pressure. Simmons couldn't handle it. But Grif wasn't going to get off, obviously. He did ease up, however, leaning up onto his elbows and raising his hips up a bit. 

“I guess if you don't  _ want _ me to bang you, mister Entire Small Town-”

“I didn't even remotely say that. You've made your slutty bed. Now you've gotta lie in it.”

Grif grinned and pinched Simmons’ ribs, moving to wiggle his hand under Simmons’ shirt. Now, that he could get used to. He'd forgotten how- Well, big and soft and  _ warm _ Grif was. He leaned up to kiss his husband, quickly settling into a soft rhythm of moving and kissing and making the occasional satisfied noise. Simmons’ shirt ended up bunched up near his collarbone, and Grif pulled off to kiss the center of his chest. Simmons had forgotten how red he'd get, even down onto his chest- he looked like an embarrassed lobster. That, no. That was an overstatement. But Grif kept pressing his lips against Simmons’ ribs, stubble scraping his skin. 

“You know,” he broke away, forehead rested against Simmons’ sternum, “I forgot how goddamn pale you were.”

Simmons laced his fingers through his husband’s hair, nodding. “And I forgot how scratchy you were. You're gonna give my tits beard-burn.”

“I can give somethin’ else of yours beard-burn.”

“As much as I love you, I'd very much appreciate if you just skipped to the good bit, dearest husband of mine who has a very obvious boner that I’d like to capitalize on.”

“Well, you- You weren't supposed to notice!”

“How was I supposed to not notice, you’re right on top of me-”

Grif huffed and rolled off of Simmons, lying down next to him. Simmons snorted. That was his husband. Pouting as always. Simmons rested a hand on his husband’s stomach, humming. 

“Hey, Dex?”

“Hmm.”

“We’re still really bad at this.”

“Have been since we started, Dick.”

“Wanna try again?”

“For sure.”

* * *

 

Kai groaned and hitched her shirt up, trying to unhook her bra with her arms pulled through her sleeves.

“I’m so fucking serious. It never ends. He’s had like, a billion boyfriends, and he brings ‘em all home, and then he’s  _ fucking loud!”  _ She hollered the last few words, crossing the room to bang on the wall between the living room and the bedroom. “Fucker.”

“Kai, you can drive. You can leave the house, y’know.”   
“Well, duh. I just wanna bitch about it first. Do you want to go out and get smashed with me?”

Epsilon laced his hands together and covered his eyes, leaning back in the recliner. He looked like he was thinking it over, and then nodded. 

“Yeah, why not.” 

Kai was happy to drag him out of the house and walk him the not-too-far-but-apparently-too-far-for-his-fat-ass distance to the closest dive bar. She swore at herself for forgetting her fake ID, before realizing that she had a real-ass ID and could legally buy as much liquor as she wanted. Until she got kicked out. But that would be for being drunk, not for being seventeen! Holy shit. She wasted valuable time in that goddamn box canyon. She’d really have to fucking binge to make up for lost time. She ordered approximately an assload of shots and yanked Epsilon into a booth, setting down the tray she’d carried over. Her fingers wiggled over the glasses as she decided, knocking her poison of choice back. 

“Whoo! Okay. Nice. Dude, my tolerance is shot. So, like. How do you fit in to the whole situation? Are you like, the weird otter side-bitch? Or just a roommate.”

Epsilon choked on air, gingerly picking up one of the shots on the tray.

“Uh. I’m kind of in the middle stages between those. Are you sure I’m an otter? I’m pretty sure I’m a cub.”

“So like, you guys haven’t fucked or anything, but there’s the weird sexual tension?”

“Sure? Hey, didn’t you and Tucker bang at one point?”

Kai rolled her eyes, pulling the tray closer to her. 

“Don’t even remind me. Like, I totally get that he’s straight or whatever? But, I’m a chick, and him freaking out about me being intersex is like, so unnecessary. It doesn’t make him less straight.”

“You’re intersex? I mean, that sounds. Incredibly like Tucker, about him thinking he’s not straight, but.”   
“Oh my God. Yeah, most of the family is actually. Statistical anomaly, I guess? Mom was, and I’m like, eighty percent sure Dex is too. He just hates doctors.” Kai shrugged. “Bruh, who cares, though. Let’s talk about you. What is  _ your  _ deal. Aren’t you like, eight dudes? I heard you talkin’ to yourself, but like. You know.”

Epsilon shook his head, poking at the upturned glasses in front of the two of them. Apparently they’d been blitzing through these. Neither of them had even noticed. Kai suspected that the bartender had given them non-alcoholic shots. That was fair, though. She knew him and had probably conned him into giving her booze when she was underage. Good times. 

“It’s kind of complicated. That’s the gist of it, I guess. Kind of weird. I mean, technically, I’m an AI chip in an android-ish flesh suit.”

“Like those- The holes they drilled in the back of our necks?”

“Those. I can jump into soldiers with a blank chip in, like in the armor. And, uh. I can get reimplanted? But I haven’t done it in a while.”

“Holy shit! I gotta try that.”

“Wh- Are you serious? I mean, damn, dude, sure, but. What, like. Maybe in a week or something?”

“Nope! We’re gonna get you inside me and then we’re gonna get shitfaced at home, right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am. very tired.   
> this was not pre-read beforehand. i am very tire.d


	25. Rehire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kai and Epsilon bond, Donut gives up, and Grif sacrifices his ideals for The Man.

“Okay, so I totally think that it’s super weird that you can psychically take over other people’s bodies, but like. Can you control people’s bodies too.”

Epsilon pulsed in the back of Kai’s mind. The others were uncharacteristically quiet, trying to give her some time to adjust. She seemed to be doing alright, given that it was her first time with an actual proper AI implanted. She also was crouched eye-level with the kitchen counter, pouring some flavor of vodka into a shot glass with a yellow and purple pride flag on it. 

_ Yeah, I guess so.  _

“So, like-”

_ I can’t make people do sex stuff.  _

“But you totally could.”

_ Theoretically, yeah, but it’s super fucked up. _

“You have a point. What am I supposed to do with your body?” She straightened up, downing the shot of vodka and shaking her head. With the hand holding the glass, she motioned at Epsilon’s limp body propped up in one of the kitchen chairs. It was a little creepy. She hadn’t even closed the eyes. “Like, do I just leave it here. It freaks me out. You're like a pod person. A hairy, ugly pod person.”

_ Thanks. Just cover it up with a blanket or something.  _

Theta buzzed up in the back of Kai’s mind, settling in next to Epsilon. He didn't say anything, just wanted to observe what they were doing now. 

“Oh, shit, who’s that? There's like, two dudes now.”

_ Theta. He's quiet. Not really into talking.  _

Theta protested, swelling up and jostling at Epsilon’s hold. 

_ Fucking- Fine. He's not quiet. He's just shy.  _

“That's cute. Are you guys like, brothers?”

Delta hummed, mentioning that they were the same person. 

_ Thanks, Delta. No, we’re not- Well, I guess we’re kind of like brothers? But not- Not really. We're more like a bunch of different people, based on one person.  _

“Like when you're writing something and you give all the characters your personality traits.”

_ Sure? Did you- Did you write a lot? _

“It was mostly Brooklyn 99 fanfic.”

_ Oh. Cool. So, uh. What's the plan for today, since you're getting drunk and it's, eight at night, now.  _

“Planning on taking the car out and selling it for scrap.”

_ Okay, how about we don't do that, instead of doing that.  _

Kai snorted and poured out another shot. “I'm kidding, bro! Jeez. No wonder you're like, half-way dating my brother. You two are so alike.” Peering around the kitchen, she popped the fridge open and pulled out a container of lime wedges. “Also, are him and that weird blonde guy getting married? Cause if I'm not the bridesmaid I'm gonna be so pissed!”

_ I think Wash was gonna be the best man, but now she's a bridesmaid. Could there be two bridesmaids? Would you be Simmons’ bridesmaid? _

“Bitch, don't ask me, I've never been married. Probably though. You know what sucks?”

_ What? _

Looking down into her shot glass, Kai sighed, “Drinking alone. I kinda want to go see how everyone is doing, y’know? Like, I have friends! I haven’t talked to ‘em in so long, I miss those dumb fuckers.” She leaned back against the counter and ran a hand through her hair, dragging it out in front of her and fidgeting with the ends. “You know? Like, those were my  _ people!  _ My bros! I don’t know if any of them got, like, married or anything. Fuck, dude. My brother got married and I didn’t know until now!”

Epsilon thought about it, settling down into a comfortable hum in the back of Kai’s head. He didn’t really know what to say to her. Human experience, man. What was he supposed to do with that? He’d never grown up with people and been friends with them and all that. Sure, he had memories of that stuff, but those weren’t. His. 

Theta nudged him again, forcing him to acknowledge Kai.

_ Sorry, kid. I could head out with you if you put me back in my body? _

“Yeah, I guess. I dunno. I totally made myself super fucking sad and now I just wanna go bug my stupid brother.”

_ Oh, put me in my body for that, I need to kick him.  _

“Hell fucking yes.”

* * *

 

Donut had two mothers, and an estranged father. The farm they lived on now was owned by mom number two, the one not biologically related to them. The moms had gone on an extended vacation, visiting Donut’s grandparents in Nigeria. Two years they’d been gone! And now they were coming home to the farm. 

It would be a touching reunion, if they’d come close to calling Donut ahead of time. And if they weren’t making out with Caboose on the couch when their moms burst into the house. See, Donut had a good relationship with their moms. There hadn’t been a need for keeping secrets in high school. But there was a line, and this was crossing it. It wasn’t like their moms didn’t  _ approve _ of Caboose, or anything. They loved him! But Donut had some serious issues with living with their moms, and having to deal with their moms waking up every day and making breakfast and doing farm things and petting the new cat and greeting Caboose, and-

No. Donut could not do this. When you’re an adult, parents are meant to be loved from afar. That’s how Donut ended up in a skype call with Simmons, flopped out in front of their computer and whining. 

“It's just not faaaaaair! They're always  _ around  _ and getting into my business!”

“It really must suck having parents that love you, Donut. It's really a bad situation. I mean, parents that  _ care  _ about you? Jeez, I dunno.” Simmons snorted over the line, keys tapping. “Off-topic, but when are you going to help with the wedding? I'm sure you guys could come and stay for a while until the wedding is over-”

There was a thud on the other end of the line, and a clatter. Donut assumed that Simmons’ headset fell off, since they could hear Grif’s voice in the background. Now they were arguing? No, too happy. They were having a conversation. Simmons was squeaking and Grif was talking so so much- Well, clearly something exciting happened. Donut sighed. They heard the headset shift again, and Simmons spoke up. 

“Sorry! Uh, Dexter came in-” At this point the microphone scraped, and Grif spoke up. 

“I got a job at a production company! I’m streaming and doing sound-” Simmons made a strangled noise. 

“Dex, you're spitting on me, just use your own microphone, there's one a foot away-” The mic sputtered again, and Grif huffed through his nose. 

“See, Dick is a prude. Can't even share a microphone.”

“It was two inches from my mouth-”

_ “Anyways.  _ I'm streaming and doing soundtrack work for a company down here now! Like, a steady job! I'm so excited, like, holy shit. Donut, I am an  _ employed man!” _

Donut clapped, feet tapping against the floor. “Aww! Yay! I'm so happy for you! Oh, Simmons, does that make the stay at home dad?”

“You have to have kids to be a stay at home dad, Donut. Besides, I'm, you know. A little scared of messing any kids that I might have, up. I don't want to mess kids up.”

Grif spoke up, clearly leaned away from the mic. “We would totally not accidentally mess a kid up, c’mon. It takes some real determination to screw a kid up like we've been screwed up.”

“Dex, shush, we'll talk about that later. Donut!”

Donut perked up, rubbing their knuckles against the crinkled scar around their eye socket. “Yessir!”

“Donut, I have Grif on board. Technically, on my lap. Do you want to come over and stay with us for a bit while you arrange all the wedding- Stuff?”

“Yes! Holy cow, yes! I'll start packing. Are any of you allergic to cats?”

* * *

 

Grif chatted up with Donut for a little while, before signing off and looping his arms around Simmons’ neck. His feet kicked slightly off the floor and he pressed his nose up against Simmons’ cheek. 

“How does it feel, knowing your terrible, horrible, no-good husband has finally sold out? I’m a cog in the machine, Dick. I’m compromising my art.”

Simmons wound his fingers through his hair and hummed, turning to kiss Grif’s forehead. 

“I know. But hey, freelance post-sampling sampled De La Soul remixes might’ve given you what you needed artistically, but it didn’t put food on the table.”

“Technically, the UNSC put the food on the table.

“Good point.”

Simmons hummed and stretched his legs out in front of him, pushing the rolling chair back a few feet. Thank goodness for wireless headsets, he would've yanked that cord right out of the computer if it had one. Grif reached up to pat his husband’s face. 

“We've gotten away from the point, dear husband. We need to celebrate my new job.”

“And how are we going to celebrate your new job?”

Grif stretched, raising his arms above his head. What could he do to celebrate. Simmons would love to do something absolutely filthy all night long, but Grif didn’t even remotely have the spoons for that. What  _ did _ he have the spoons for. That was some kind of question. Pressing his hands up against his husband’s shoulders, Grif hummed. 

“I think I’m going to cram my fat ass into a bubble bath, and you are going to pick up takeout from the killer Korean place, and… Would you indulge me if I suggested movie marathon?”

“Depends on the type.”

“...I’m feeling back-to-back Rocky Horror and Shock Treatment.” 

Simmons nodded, pressing his fingertips up under Grif’s shirt and kneading at his belly. He leaned in, giving him a peck on the lips. 

“I mean, thematically Little Shop of Horrors would work better, but I  _ guess.  _ Beef japchae and spicy mushroom soup?”

“Firstly, you suck the fun out of everything, just let me stare at Barry Bostwick's dick. Secondly and on a completely different tone, have I told you recently that I am madly in love with you? Get a couple extra of those whole fishes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOWDY FOLKS  
> HOW'VE YALL BEEN  
> GOOD?  
> COOL  
> I'VE BEEN DYING  
> SORRY IT'S SHORT, AS I'VE SAID BEFORE I'VE BEEN DYING


End file.
